


TF Drabble Dump

by CrescentMoonDemon



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Other, Shameless Smut, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5958679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrescentMoonDemon/pseuds/CrescentMoonDemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miscellaneous transformers drabbles, mostly fluff and nsfw and all that jazz. Will include various pairings from IDW Comics (MTMTE, RID, etc.) and eventually Transformers Prime (TFP) and possibly others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drift&Perceptor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Drift/Perceptor  
> Summary: Pretty much just fluff smut. Robots making love.  
> Rating: M (smut, sticky, fluff, NSFW)

“P-Perceptor,” Drift stammered, faceplates heated and flush as his lover laid atop him, slowly rocking between his splayed, shaking thighs. His vents hitched, clamping a digit between his dentas to stifle a desperate moan.  


A soft smile curved Perceptor’s lips, admiring the trembling beauty beneath him. He laid a kiss against Drift’s brow down the tip of his nose, across his cheek and up to the very tip of his finial, radiating heat and a faint pink hue flush with energon. ‘Cute’ was perhaps the most underused word in Perceptor’s entire considerable vocabulary; after all, there were far more befitting terms to describe the sultry mech squirming and clutching and moaning underneath him, but with the pleasant haze of static gradually clouding his processor, it was as good a description as any.  


Perceptor allowed his lips to linger at the corner of his lover’s mouth, cycling warm air slowly through his cooling vents, rocking his hips at just the right rhythm to drag out the pleasure and turn Drift into that whining, quivering mess he loved so much. Drift took the invitation and latched onto Perceptor in a needing, lusty kiss, deep and desperate and so, so sweet. Mmmm, he certainly knew how to make this difficult for the sniper, but Perceptor was nothing if not patient and resourceful.

Knowing black digits ghosted across the white plating of Drift’s chassis, skimming over sensitive divots and grooves and dipping into transformation seams long-since memorized, helm ducked into the gap between his neck and shoulder to kiss and nibble the tender cables there. Drift cried out, clenching tightly into Perceptor’s back and rocking his hips up, moaning his name over and over right beside his dark audial. Perceptor could only smile faintly and trail kisses all along the swordmech’s throat, hooking a servo under one of his knees and lifting it up over his arm, rewarding his lover with a slightly quicker, deeper pace that had Drift a molten puddle of mindless ecstasy beneath him.  


Perceptor loved nothing more than to see his lover in pleasure like this. It gave him peace to watch those optics dim with such raw, unadulterated delight, no matter the torturous and teasing ways he wrung it from him. Drift’s lips parted and arched his helm back, moaning out Perceptor’s name as he clutched their bodies together, thrusting and grinding, metal scalding to the touch with the steady build of their combined charges. It cracked Perceptor’s resolve a bit, just enough for him to lean in and steal another kiss from his lover who was all too happy to return it tenfold.  


Somewhere amid Drift’s pleading moans and Perceptor’s slow, deliberate thrusts, Perceptor found himself on his back, treated to the luscious sight that was the divine white mech seated atop him, straddling and grinding hard enough for black paint to flake off the scientist’s hip plates and mar his immaculate interface array. Perceptor allowed himself a deeper breath and quiet moan, making a note to help Drift clean himself off in the washracks later. The sound did not go unnoticed, and Drift pitched forward, digits scraping down Perceptor’s chest and scuffing the glass there, and a particularly hard thrust pushed his spike deep into Drift’s clenched valve and struck one of his best sensory nodes. Drift moaned loudly and repeated the hard thrusts over and over, the heat of their charges no longer able to be dispelled by their cooling vents alone.  


Knowing Drift didn’t have long, Perceptor decided to give him what he so desperately needed. He pulled himself up and slipped a hand behind Drift’s helm, drawing him down into a hot, passionate kiss, the other snaking behind the swordmech’s back as he grabbed Perceptor with both servos and deepened the exchange lustily. Perceptor managed to get some leverage around Drift’s needy, frantic hips and thrust into him roughly, hard and deep. Drift threw his helm back, crying his lover’s name, but Perceptor brought his lips back to quiet him, driving into that tight, spasming valve fast, deep, crashing their bodies together like it was their last day alive.  


Overload crashed over them in unison, Drift’s shrill, blissful keen like music to Perceptor’s ears. His valve clenched tightly and stroked around the sniper’s thick spike, milking him of his overload as he released a hot rush of transfluid deep into his lover’s body, a strangled gasp ringing hard as a gong strike in his Spark chamber. Drift’s spike spasmed and emptied against Perceptor’s abdomen, both mechs struck by the wash of unimaginable ecstasy.  


Drift melted into his front, utterly spent as Perceptor laid back, content to wrap him up in his arms and lie there with Drift forever, savoring the physical connection as much as the psychological one. It was so rare that the two got to share a glorious romp like this nowadays; Rodimus kept them both busy with their respective duties, so Perceptor was just glad to have his lover in his arms again, wishing he could never let him go.  


He hummed softly when Drift stirred, somewhat recovered from his daze, and looked up at the scientist with the most gorgeous smile, blue optics dim, tired, and so very comfortable. He leaned up and Perceptor was more than happy to oblige Drift with his favorite, long, post-interface kiss: sweet, drawn-out, and radiating everything that was good in the galaxy. Perceptor smiled and offlined his optics, holding his lover close, and cherished the little pleasantries whenever they presented themselves.


	2. Whirl&Cyclonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Whirl/Cyclonus  
> Summary: Whirl loses a bet; Cyclonus just wants him to be quiet.  
> Rating: M (D/s, light bondage, smut, sticky, NSFW, hate sex(?))

“C’mon, you old scrapheap, I’ve seen insecticons frag with more coordination than you,” Whirl goaded, pitching back against the servo shoving his helm into the berth.

Cyclonus growled and tightened his hold around the ex-Wrecker’s neck, outright demanding him to just shut up. A sharp thrust did stop his rambling for a moment, vocalizers rent to a burst of static as Cyclonus pounded into the lanky blue mech on his knees before him.

“I wish you had a mouth,” Cyclonus grated, digging his claws into Whirl’s thigh for leverage and to further spread his legs, forcing him lower. He grunted at the valve tightening around his spike, making each thrust a challenge he was more than willing to meet. “Then I could weld it shut.”

“Nph, that’s a low blow, Con—nghh!”

Whirl’s pincers clenched, bound tight behind his back and twisted and wrenched to no avail. His militancy snuffed by the restraints, Whirl kept jabbing and prodding at Cyclonus verbally; that was, whenever he could get words to form amidst the Con’s violent thrusts. It was all he could do to keep from purring at the rough treatment, because there was no way in all the Pit Whirl was going to let the fragger know just how badly he was getting off on this. How Cyclonus had taken measures to make certain there would be no confrontation here; the restraints revved his engine so hard it was a struggle to keep it down. Sharp claws dug into his seams and dragged across his plates leaving gouges in the metal and a light trickle of energon staining his berth, a slick trail of lubricant running down between his thighs. If anyone asked later, they’d sparred.

Frag, Whirl needed to lose his own bets more often. Who knew the old slagger could be such a brute in the berth. That thick spike plunging inside him, dragging and grinding over every node, claws sunk into his narrow hips and digging his helm into the berth to stifle his incessant babbling, it was a wonder Whirl could keep it together at all.

“Ah, come on you stupid Con,” he mocked, “iszat the best you can do—? Nnh!”

“Shut. Up.” Cyclonus snarled, closing his fist harder around the mech’s narrow neck and trying to strangle him quiet.

But Whirl seemed able to answer the abuse by turning the same treatment back on Cyclonus’s spike, squeezing and clenching rhythmically and with far more power than Cyclonus originally anticipated. Nn, slag, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel incredible how tight he was. He was a surprisingly great frag. It was so, so satisfying to dominate Whirl like this, and the more he did the better the other seemed to respond. Mmm, so he was into this kind of thing, was he?

Cyclonus smirked to himself and adjusted his grip to force the underside of Whirl’s helm flat on the berth. He realigned his hips, dug his claws into a spindly blue thigh, and brought him back to meet his thrusts while the ex-Wrecker squirmed, cursing and mocking until a series of sharp lunges turned him to a mess of quivering stutters and whines. Cyclonus leaned down beside his helm, putting his full weight over his back just to feel him shake.

“I’ll teach you the value of submission, Whirl,” Cyclonus growled low, letting the sound reverberate through his chassis and into the shivering helicopter. He wrapped his servo beneath his throat, squeezing it until the light of his optic flickered.

“Mmnph, give it your best shot,” Whirl muttered, more of a desperate keen by now but still very much a challenge, “f-fragger.”

There it was, that crack in his façade. Excellent. Cyclonus stayed in place, weighing down against the lighter mech to remind him of his place, claws flexed around his throat. He snuck a hand beneath Whirl’s knee joint and jerked it up, slamming his hips forward and pounding viciously into the mech’s clenching valve. This close, he could hear the little grunts and whines that didn’t quite make it out; Cyclonus could feel the engine rumble stifled down in the ex-Wrecker’s chassis, and that simply wouldn’t do. Talons raked gashes across the inside of his thigh and plucked the ridges of his neck plating, glossa trailing up his long nape and relishing in the mindless shudders he earned, the low guttural moans timed perfectly to his thrusts.

Cyclonus went on pounding into him with abandon, snarling into his audial. Whirl pitched back against the thrusts each time, not to dislodge him like before but to meet Cyclonus pound-for-vicious-pound, taking his spike deeper, harder until his back was dented and his valve was sore. His goading jeers soon swapped out for pleas, alternating between begging “yes, yes, ah, deeper, please, yes!” and demanding “faster, harder, yes ngh that’s it, fragger, that’s it!” and giving Cyclonus just enough flak to egg him on, to keep him going. Frag, he wasn’t going to be able to walk right for a week, nnnngh!, and he loved it.

Claws dug hard around Whirl’s neck as the electricity of their charges built up higher and higher, cresting to a peak, and Whirl went over first. Systems seized up and clenched hard, virtually howling as he arched back into Cyclonus’s hammering spike, optic flickering while his Spark flared and the overload dragged out torturously. Cyclonus went on, thrusting powerfully and holding tight, then sunk his digits into Whirl’s already damaged hip, bruising his ceiling node with the depth of his final plunge, and emptied into that tight, spasming valve with a bestial snarl.

Cyclonus released him slowly once the haze cleared and righted himself. He took a moment to admire his handiwork in the stunned, trembling mech before him. Sets of vicious claw marks marred every surface of light blue hide, spattered with and still leaking energon in places, and riddled with dents and dings that Ratchet would undoubtedly chew him out for and get suspicious about later. Cyclonus smirked and pulled out once Whirl’s valve relaxed and savored the view. A mix of transfluid and lubricant rushed out and down the middle of his thighs in excess, valve twitching and empty and unable to retake its original shape from the rough beating it took. He was going to be sore for a while.

His attention returned when Whirl shifted enough to lie forward, flinching and not even bothering to close his arrays, and just laid there trembling, cycling rapidly.

“Okay,” he started again, winded, vocalizers riddled with shaky static. “That . . . wasn’t bad. . . . I’ve had better, though . . . Con. . . .”

Cyclonus chuffed then moved atop him again, letting his weight rest at the small of Whirl’s narrow back, and the helicopter gasped and squirmed. He held the blue mech in place and ground his still hard spike against his dented plating, rumbling appreciatively when his optic gave an eager, lusty flash.

“What makes you think I’m done with you?” Cyclonus growled.


	3. Rung&Fortress Maximus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Rung/Fortress Maximus  
> Summary: Sometimes therapy requires a more personal approach.  
> Rating: T (fluff, hurt/comfort, kissing)  
> [Because oh my god I just want to love Maximus so much, hold him tight and tell him everything’s going to be okay and never let him go. QnQ Also, Rung is so precious.]

They were making such progress, but lately Maximus had fallen into a rut from which there seemed no rising out. Rung was at a loss. He’d tried everything he could think of, but Fortress Maximus could barely even look at him. The lapses into memory were growing less frequent, thank Primus, but the hulking mech had suddenly become distant. He never complained—or even spoke—about whatever was bothering him and remained cooperative for their visits, but he was no longer receptive to Rung’s aid. Rung believed Maximus genuinely wanted to be out of his cell and to be helped, but they weren’t getting anywhere anymore. Rung was worried that if he couldn’t produce proof that Fortress Maximus was improving then Rodimus would discontinue their sessions and restrict him to the brig indefinitely. He simply could not allow that.  


“Why don’t we start off simple today,” Rung suggested. He sat quietly across from the warden. Helm hung, Maximus glanced up then back down to the floor. 

“Nothing too terribly detailed. Tell me, how are you feeling?”  


Fortress Maximus looked to the side. “The same.”  


Rung refused to let his shoulders droop, digits laced atop his lap.  


“That’s a start,” he smiled. “Any better since last we visited?”  


“No.”  


“And the others are treating you well?”  


“Fine.”  


Rung frowned a bit but brushed it away. He asked a couple more questions, keeping it basic and conversational. If Maximus was being properly fueled, if the other prisoners were giving him a hard time, and what kind of thoughts might be on his mind. He didn’t get much of a response for the last one.  


“Fortress Maximus,” Rung began gently and scooted forward to the edge of his chair, “please tell me, what is the matter? I want to help you, I genuinely do. But first I need you to let me. If not as your doctor, then as your friend.” His smile was gentle, sincere. “Please.”  


Maximus glanced back to him. His red stare lingered a few seconds longer than before and then turned back to the floor. It wasn’t nothing, but his body language was still completely closed off. Elbows were drawn in and rested atop his knees, shoulders slouched and helm downcast, servos kept cuffed for precaution to avoid any likelihood of a repeat of their first incident—which, Primus, felt a lifetime ago.  


The silence was long, but Rung was patient.  


Fortress Maximus finally sighed.  


“I can’t,” he murmured.  


“Why not?”  


“I just can’t.”  


Rung frowned somewhat, empathetic. This wasn’t the first time he encountered a patient who gave up on help midway through treatment. Whirl often toyed with the idea of not coming anymore despite what his sentence demanded, and Red Alert had been Rung’s most challenging case to date. Fortress Maximus was proving to be difficult, but not at all unmanageable. Rung had such hope for him; he just needed Maximus to see the same.  


Conventional psychotherapy did not appear to be having the same effect any longer. Rung knew he needed a different approach. But what? He remembered some research he did into tactile therapy a while back and the level of success it attested to with victims of PTSD. Like most unconventional methods, it ran the risk of having the exact opposite of its intended effect and making the patient distrustful and suspicious, and on top of that there was the chance it could lead to attachment and infatuation. Rung had dealt with that before on a few occasions and given the opportunity he would rather not repeat it, but he was not about to give up on Fortress Maximus. He owed it to the mech—for his pushiness in their first meeting.  


Rung stroked his hands together and stood up slowly. The movement drew Maximus’s attention. Rung moved carefully and paused before getting too close, not wanting him to feel that he was pushing or encroaching.  


“If I may, I’d like to try something,” Rung said. His palms faced outward looking downright miniscule by comparison. “Please tell me if you are adverse to it. If you are, I will stop immediately and we will be done for the day. I will not harm you, Fortress Maximus, I promise.”  


But because Maximus said nothing or gave no indication of his approval, Rung stood there waiting, hands presented. It was clearly not the reaction the larger mech expected, but after a moment of deliberation, he nodded once. Rung stepped slowly forward, certain to keep his hands in clear view, and stopped once he was right in front of his towering patient. Maximus stared down at him, stern but confused, and flinched when the orange Bot reached out. Rung held still and waited for him to relax before he continued, then gingerly placed his small servo against Maximus’s bicep.  


“I did research into this method back on Cybertron,” Rung explained, not about to leave Maximus in the dark and risk offending him or what fragile trust they’d established. “It does involve some casual touching, but I will not do anything you do not want me to. Please tell me if you would like me to stop at any time. I absolutely do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”  


Maximus looked suspicious but otherwise didn’t say anything. He nodded again for Rung to continue. A second servo came up and gingerly laid against the silvery white panel of his chest plate just beneath his insignia and carefully glided his fingertips along to the side. Maximus eyed each move attentively, all the while Rung watched his face for a reaction, any indication he had gone too far at any point. When there were none, he went on. Carefully, Rung grazed along Maximus’s hide, wary of anatomical zones he knew to be sensitive, and encouraged him to simply feel it.  


It was only a few short moments of this until Fortress Maximus’s optics shuttered slightly and his drawn, dour expression began to soften. Rung smiled, so joyed and grateful that his Spark fluttered in its chamber. His hand came to rest behind Maximus’s shoulder and wound up leaning in closer than intended, but the mech’s expression was contemplative, completely absent of any negative thought or emotion.  


“Is this okay, Fortre—? Oh!” Rung gasped and jumped, not expecting it when Maximus suddenly took hold of him.  


“M-Maximus?” he stuttered, more surprised than anything else.  


The mech’s servos were powerful and enormous but also astonishingly gentle with his small frame. Their optics met and Fortress Maximus appeared considerate, so much so Rung could see the gears turning behind them. One enormous blue servo flattened weightlessly into his back at the same time Maximus lowered himself, and the Lost Light’s humble therapist whose name no one could ever seem to remember blinked to find himself suddenly kissing the giant mech.  


The kiss was brief, a bit awkward from their size difference, and lingered warm against Rung’s lips when Maximus drew away and straightened. The small orange Bot’s face was flush and glowing with energon, speechless and floundering for the first time in centuries. Maximus remained silent, brow plates pulled slightly together, expecting some kind of a response; though, perhaps he wasn’t sure what.  


“Oh,” was Rung’s first reaction. “Is that . . . is that acceptable?”  


“You tell me,” Fortress Maximus replied.  


Rung considered it a moment and then smiled genuinely again. “If it helps you, Maximus, then it is fine.”  


Maximus nodded and freed one of his servos to carefully pinch the base of Rung’s chin between his digits and bring the smaller mech back. Rung managed to not be quite as surprised but it still floored him at how gentle Fortress Maximus was, the warmth and slow caress of his lips, and before long Rung found himself retuning it with a small sigh and sag of his shoulders. Hand still behind Maximus’s shoulder, he moved the other to rest gingerly against the larger mech’s helm and thumbed the tall, flat surface of his audial.  


Unconventional, yes, but Rung couldn’t argue with results. At least Fortress Maximus was more willing to talk after that.


	4. Rodimus&Ultra Magnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Rodimus/Ultra Magnus  
> Summary: Rodimus believes Ultra Magnus needs to lighten up; Magnus disagrees with his methods.  
> Rating: M (closet sex, oral, minor exhibitionism(?), sticky, NSFW)  
> [Magnus makes this for me.]

“Rodimus, I must protest. This is highly inappropriate,” Ultra Magnus said. “Drift’s office was unacceptable, but a utility closet is absolutely out of the question. This is in blatant violation of the common grounds of decency, not to mention more indecent exposure violations than I care to count, and I—”  


“Magnus,” Rodimus interrupted, trailing his servos up the larger mech’s siding, “have I ever told you that you really need to lighten up?”  


If it were possible for the enforcer’s frown to deepen any further, it would have dented the floor of the ship. “Yes,” Ultra Magnus deadpanned. “Approximately eighty-seven times in the past stellar week alone.”  


Rodimus paused in his ministrations to blink and cock a brow plate. “Wow. You know, at this rate I’m going to have to make ‘relax’ an order rather than a suggestion.”  


“You would not be successful.”  


Rodimus huffed and frowned, lower lip jutting out in the pout of a true sparkling. Not one to be discouraged, however, he bounced out of it and knelt down before his second-in-command and ordered him to open up. As opposed to this act at Ultra Magnus was, he wasn’t about to disobey a direct order regardless of how uncomfortable it made him—and especially because Rodimus would undoubtedly find some other roundabout method of getting what he wanted from him.  


The moment Ultra Magnus’s flaccid spike emerged from its housing, Rodimus took it in his servos and began licking, sucking, and massaging it with the utmost care and attention. It didn’t take much of this treatment until Ultra Magnus shuddered and pressurized, pulsing and throbbing in Rodimus’s practiced hands. If only Rodimus put as much effort and seriousness into his position as Prime as he did into driving the Tyrest Enforcer through the ceiling with these improper acts, then Ultra Magnus wouldn’t feel it nearly as necessary to go out of his way to nitpick.  


An approving little hum vibrated its way up Ultra Magnus’s spike once it was fully hardened and Rodimus trailed his glossa up the underside. He kissed and suckled the tip just to watch Magnus ball his fists, knowing it was all the stoic enforcer could do to keep from grabbing him. Glossa pressed into the leaking slit, Rodimus moaned and took it into his mouth and sucked him in deep, unexpected enough for Ultra Magnus to lurch and knock his helm back into the bulkhead and rattle the contents of a nearby shelf. Rodimus knew exactly how to rifle the mech’s circuits, and he took great pride and pleasure in doing so.  


“Rodimus,” Ultra Magnus grated, biting back on his charge on a last-ditch effort to keep it together, “this is not a good idea. We should not—”  


The phrase cut short with a strangled grunt when Rodimus moaned around him again. Bright, lustful blue optics grinned up at him, barely able to curve his lips around the spike’s impressive girth. His helm bobbed back and forth, purposeful and taunting and gripping hard into Magnus’s hip struts. His glossa swirled in all directions and left a thin sheen of oral lubricant behind to be cleaned up on the following passes. Magnus desperately wanted to think of nothing more than all the things he could be doing to be productive—keeping an eye on the crew, patrolling the brig, tidying up his office, making sure Tailgate was still sympathizing with the Autobots—but it was all slipping away much too fast. The light graze of dental plating along his external nodes, glossa twisting and laving into the gaps between pressure plates, servos pumping, squeezing, caressing, and the moaning hum of Rodimus’s vocalizers, they were all working to undo him faster than the radiation blast off a supernova.  


Rodimus dug into his companion’s transformation seams and moaned heatedly and that was it. All Magnus had to say was his captain’s name, urgent and strained, and Rodimus disconnected. Ultra Magnus hiked his lithe red Prime up by his thighs and pinned him between himself and the wall, the guards of both panels snapped open to find his flashy red spike throbbing and valve slick with desire, and Magnus aligned the head of his spike with the dripping rim and pressed inside. Rodimus shook hard and bucked into the slow inward push, servos clutched to the enforcer’s magnificent frame. Legs twitched and jaw fallen open, Rodimus trembled and smiled, wordless, valve stretched wide and so deep it made his processor haze over. Involuntary circuits twitched and clenched all over his body, so ready.  


He was downright heated. Cooling vents kicked on and settled fully into Ultra Magnus’s hips, spike aching and hot within him. The enforcer drew back slowly, ground through every sparking sensor and node, and seated himself deep again before Rodimus could even miss that slow, wonderful stretch.  


“Rodimus, please, keep your voice down,” Ultra Magnus murmured, vocals tense.  


Oh. He hadn’t even realized he’d been loud at all. Rodimus muttered some mindless half-sparked apology and didn't mean a single incoherent word of it. Impatient for a better pace, he hitched his legs over Magnus’s hips and brought him back to him in one swift yank. Magnus lost his bearings from the unexpected pull and stumbled, braced his pedes and servos, and wound up with the full force of his weight pushed into Rodimus by their connection. The Prime’s helm smacked back into the wall and his jaw fell open, optics flickered and valve spasmed. Magnus immediately drew back and rambled his apologies and a suggestion to go see Ratchet until one shaky yellow servo reached up, grabbed him by an audio stack, and pulled him into a jarring, wanton kiss.  


“Scrap, Magnus, don’t apologize,” Rodimus husked, “do it again.”  


Ultra Magnus’s optics dimmed faintly. “Is that an order—Sir?”  


There was a brief instant of confusion and then Rodimus’s optics flashed. All he could do to restrain his laughter was to grind their hips together and physically bite his partner’s lip plate.  


“Yes,” he exclaimed, “yes, Magnus, yes. That’s an order. It’s an order.”  


Ultra Magnus’s optics shuttered slightly, one of his very few signs of real pleasure. He braced a servo beneath the smaller mech’s aft and the other on the bulkhead then rocked his hips back and slipped almost fully out of Rodimus. It drew a licentious whine from the young Prime, pushing back and pleading not to lose him, but before he could finish it Magnus was suddenly and forcefully in again.  


His helm arched back with what would have been an impressive cry of pleasure as Magnus outright pounded him into the wall, but a giant gray servo clamped over his mouth and stopped it short. Ngh, Rodimus wanted to wail Ultra Magnus’s name so the whole ship could hear just to spite him, but by then it was impossible to do much else but let his optics roll back. Rodimus rocked up and down the wall with every thrust from the enforcer’s powerful hips, doing his utmost to turn the treatment back on him by bucking, clenching, and grappling with his chest but each move came out erratic and blatantly unplanned. Reality centered on surging white electricity and a trembling spine, the pounding rhythm and low grunts and groans right beside his audio.  


He grabbed Magnus’s audio stacks at one point, jarring his hulking lover enough to slip free of his grip and pull him into a hard, passionate kiss. For the awkward and clumsy and utterly unpracticed kisser that Ultra Magnus was, Rodimus loved it. He was the only one who’d ever been allowed to kiss the mighty Tyrest Enforcer. He owned these lips. They were his alone to kiss, and he claimed them like it was his right as Prime; and for once Magnus had no problem indulging him—so long as it kept him quiet.  


Primus, Rodimus wanted to drag this out—to eat up as much of Ultra Magnus’s day as possible, throw off his precious to-the-nanosecond schedule, and make him late for absolutely everything for the next stellar week. To Pit with the grousing and the chewing out it would earn him; it would be so worth it in the end. But his charge came up on him faster than expected, right on time given Magnus’s pounding stride, and drove him higher by the simple knowledge of how easily they could be caught. He bucked again and again into his lover’s thrusts, kisses fervent and desperate.  


Overload took him in a sharp electric crackle and burst of swelling heat. Magnus’s servo clamped behind his helm still thrusting, still riding it out while Rodimus shook and moaned resonantly into his lips—a sound Ultra Magnus secretly considered a shame to have to stifle down. Ultra Magnus drew out the overload to a maddening rhythm of clenching, calibers rippling and pulling and drawing him in until he finally pressed in deep. Every circuit tensed and the heat and pressure erupted outward. A low, baritone groan disappeared into Rodimus's hungry lips and Ultra Magnus emptied inside him. The flood of transfluid rushed through the lithe, gorgeous Prime's core, slick and hot and absolutely euphoric.  


The pair waited there a moment, joints locked up and stunned as nonessential systems rebooted. Slowly, the static cleared. Shaky still in the afterglow, Ultra Magnus broke the kiss and braced both servos on Rodimus’s waist to take the weight off him, venturing a lick to clear away a thin rope of oral lubricant connecting them. It brought a tired smile from his partner, heavy spike still imbedded deep in the Prime’s ravishing body, and something in that knowledge gave Magnus a thrill he would never dare voice aloud.  


They cycled cool air together a few moments in an attempt to ease their overheated systems, optics dim and plates popping faintly to dispel the radiating furnaces in their Spark chambers.  


“Next time you want to interface, Rodimus,” Ultra Magnus mumbled exasperated, “can we please keep it to one of our quarters? Unlike you, I do not wish to be caught like this.”  


A slow grin that did not bode well for him spread across Rodimus’s face, tired and sated and already planning his next assault on the Tyrest Enforcer’s precious schedule. Where should he jump him next? Observation deck, maybe? The med bay sounded pretty good, too. “Mmmm, if you keep fragging me like this, big guy, you can forget about it.”  


Ultra Magnus’s frown deepened. Somehow, it did. And Rodimus never looked more smug.


	5. Bob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: N/A, just Bob  
> Summary: Sometimes an insecticon just wants to show his love.  
> Rating: K (Bob being an infuriatingly adorable little cutie)  
> [BECAUSE HE’S JUST SO GODDAMN CUTE OKAY]

Feet. Feet all over. Some moved and some were still. Some feet tapped and twitched and some feet brushed against others, splashes of colors touching together and playing games beneath tables where only Bob could see them. He watched them all and wanted to play with every single one, but His Master had told him to stay and stay he would.  


Still, Bob chirred and scratched and wanted to play. Play! Play! Could there be something to chase maybe? He pawed at His Master’s feets and begged him to throw something so he could catch it and bring it back to him, but His Master told him to stop so he stopped and sat, still wanting to play.  


His Master gave him a sweetie treat for being still and a “guuhd bo-ee” and he ate it up happily. Bob curled up and nestled into His Master’s yellow feet—it was his very favorite thing to do—and squealed happily when he put them up on his side for him to play with. He pawed and nuzzled and tugged the yellow feet and His Master made happy sounds and communed with his others, the feet around them, kicking and colorful and pretty and Bob wanted to play with them, too.  


A blue face with red feet yellow seers peeked down and showed his mouth-chewers in a curve, but Bob was not afraid. He wiggled his red feet and Bob squeaked and grabbed them and nuzzled them. The Master-Friend made a happy sound, too, and Bob squished and pawed and tugged himself around the round-rubbers until the Master-Friend lifted him up and shook him but Bob held tighter and squealed excitedly until he was set down and allowed to nuzzle the other foot, too.  


His Master called him and Bob scurried back and pawed his yellow leg, happy to purr and nuzzle when His Master rubbed his helm and he buried into his leg, wishing he could nuzzle His Master forever. Nuzzling was his very favorite thing to do.  


More faces peeked down and the small Master-Friend with the one red side-seer made sounds and kicked his tiny white feet which didn’t reach the ground. Bob hurried to them and pawed and tried to catch them but the small Master-Friend kept moving them away. Eeee, he was playing! Play! Play! Bob keened and crooned and jumped and grabbed and tried to catch them. He finally did and never wanted to let them go, loving and nuzzling and chirring for the tiny white feet that had wanted to play. Another yellow-and-orange Master-Friend made sounds and reached down to pet his helm and his pretty silver grabbers scratched under Bob’s chin. Scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch! Fingers, fingers! Bob loved fingers, too! Bob pawed for the pretty silver fingers and purred when they rubbed the space behind his collar.  


A few other Master-Friends let Bob play with their pretty and colorful feets, too, and soon Bob was tired and returned to His Master’s yellow feet and loved and nuzzled and curled around them. His Master made small happy sounds and gave him another sweetie treat and he nibbled on it tiredly, wishing he could love His Master and His Master’s friends forever. They were his very favorite things.  


Later when His Master went home, Bob was allowed on the up-nest and even to curl up on His Master’s pretty yellow side and cuddle and chirr at the colorful splashes of purple and yellow and gray between them. Cuddling was his very favorite thing to do. He purred the whole time, nestled and happy as His Master pet his helm and called him a “guuhd bo-ee” which was a good thing and made Bob even more happy. He nuzzled His Master’s belly and His Master made more happy sounds and scratched him under his chin. Bob purred.  


Bob loved His Master. He was Bob’s very favorite thing ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Just in case you weren’t able to tell, the other mechs were Skids, Rewind, and Chromedome in that order. I swear—this freaking cutie though. I might just do another one with Bob at this rate. Adorable little asdfghjkl]


	6. Rodimus&Ultra Magnus2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Rodimus/Ultra Magnus  
> Summary: Interfacing with Ultra Magnus tends to leave a mark. (continuation of chapter 4)  
> Rating: M (smut, rough sex leading to minor injuries, sticky, NSFW)  
> [Because MTMTE Issue #11 showed us that Magnus has one hell of a grip, and Roddy probably likes it.]

There always came a price to ‘facing with Magnus. Yes, there was the griping. Ultra Magnus often mourned his temporary loss of decorum for hours after a good rut, sometimes for days depending on what lecherous feats and positions Rodimus had coaxed him into. He'd gone so far as to outright refuse speaking to him for an entire stellar week once when Rodimus had convinced the mighty Tyrest Enforcer to 69 with him and again when they'd nearly been caught red-handed in one of the utility closets on the lower decks—by Swerve of all mechs.  


No, the griping was of no concern to Rodimus; if he was honest, he rather liked teasing Magnus about it in private. It was the injuries that came as the biggest cost of their little ‘romps.’  


Rodimus groaned hard and rocked back into the mech behind him, shaking and shuddering and gripping the berth edge just to keep himself together. Ultra Magnus’s grip was merciless, completely unaware of just how deep he was digging into Rodimus’s hips. Helm arched back and then sharply forward, shoulders tense and every circuit firing a heated amalgamation of pain—from the servos squeezing dents into his plates—and ecstasy—at the spike plunging in and out at the perfect pace, a depth and rhythm that made Ultra Magnus the current center of Rodimus’s whole universe.  


He cried out, moaning his partner’s name, and for once Ultra Magnus didn’t need to worry about silencing him. The Prime’s quarters were armor reinforced and totally soundproofed, a haven in case of emergency. A place Ultra Magnus might even venture a moan of his own on occasion. Like now for instance.  


Servos clutched around Rodimus’s slender waist, holding him in place and guiding him to rock back into his thrusts. Rodimus’s jaw components hung open virtually unhinged as Ultra Magnus thrust his hips and rocked into his captain’s quivering body, so attune to every detail: the differing in the pitches of his moans, the shrill tone of his name being repeated back to him, the bucks and involuntary twitches that jarred his frame when just the right calipers were struck and sent surges coursing through him. Rodimus had overloaded once already, the evidence of it still staining Ultra Magnus’s hips and abdomen and the berth underneath them, and it seemed he was well on his way to a second.  


Rodimus rocked with him, clutching the berth and whimpering as his ceiling node was struck over and over, so sensitive and overstimulated it was just about driving him to glitch. Vocalizers fizzed in and out and he melted forward, spinal supports bowed out while Magnus repositioned his pedes and leaned over him and rocked in deep. Rodimus’s frame locked and cried out his name shrill and harsh, calipers clenched wildly and rippling and his spike burst in his second overload of the evening, but Ultra Magnus didn’t let up. His orders were to keep going until specifically told otherwise, and he had every intention of doing just that. Watching Rodimus be driven to so many peaks while Magnus had yet to reach his first, it was torture all its own. But it was a very specific brand of torture, one that Rodimus liked, and one of the decidedly few things Ultra Magnus didn’t at all mind indulging him in once in a while. Not that he would ever admit it aloud, of course.  


With restraint enough to put even himself to shame, Ultra Magnus rode out Rodimus’s climax with a tight grip and clenched dental plates. The snug clasp and rhythmic pull of his calipers drew his spike in deep and tried to milk him of his overload; Primus, it was maddening—the Prime’s vigorous body uncaring even when it was unsuccessful in bringing him to a peak. Ultra Magnus picked up his thrusts the moment it was done and just admired the sight of his Prime splayed out and trembling before him. He took pity on his over-sensitive body and cramped knees, and Magnus bodily lifted Rodimus upright and back against his chest. One of his servos came up and gripped shakily behind the enforcer’s helm, the other into the wheel well in his forearm and knocked his helm back and canted a high pitched moan.  


“M-Magnus,” the young Prime whimpered, optics a blurred haze and pounding with ecstasy, “y-yes. Oh, Primus, yes. This ne-n-next one—nnnngh! Overload, Magnus, please! Please, overload! Aaaaaaangh!”  


‘Please?’ Primus, Ultra Magnus must have been doing better than he thought. He pressed a light kiss into Rodimus’s audial to show he understood, surprising even himself, and servos gripped tight beneath fiery red thighs, his weight like nothing to the bigger mech while he lifted the other up and down to the pace of his thrusts.  


The Prime’s moans were a symphony of pleasure and Ultra Magnus gasped and groaned. White-gray digits pressed outlines into the curve of blazingly colored plates. Yes, Magnus knew of the damages even if Rodimus didn’t know he knew. He was marking the Prime. It was juvenile and inappropriate and had already gotten them both a stern chewing out by the Lost Light’s medical staff, but it was the only way Magnus could make his point without outright saying something. Because he wasn’t just claiming Rodimus with those deep trenching outlines only his servos could make; Ultra Magnus was proving a point to the rebellious young upstart: that if Ultra Magnus could rend his plates so easily in a fit of passion, then Rodimus needed to focus—during combat when lives were at stake and even now when it was just the two of them together. But Rodimus barely ever seemed to notice; he was distracted, and they would need considerably more practice before anything stuck.  


Ultra Magnus kept his rhythm through it all while Rodimus pitched and moaned and rocked with him. Servos clasped behind his helm and around his arm for balance, pushing back to meet the plunge of his spike again and again, the creak of caving metal and Rodimus groaned. Lithe back struts bowed out and shook, and at a low whisper of his name his optics snapped open and met the enforcer’s hazy blue glow. Rodimus’s lips curved into a smile and dug his digits behind Magnus’s helm and pulled him into a hard, passionate kiss, so completely overwhelmed by it all. The exhaustion and overstimulated nerve bundles sparking and jolting, metal caved to a set pattern all over his body, and kissing his partner so hard their dental plates clashed and glossas warred with such fervent lust it tipped Rodimus over like an avalanche.  


Systems locked and his Spark seized with such intensity it glowed through the seams in his chassis, made all the more incredible as Ultra Magnus moaned—Primus, actually moaned—into his lips. A flood of transfluid rushed through his clutching valve all the way to the top and Rodimus experienced a total blackout. He came back from an eternity’s worth of nanoseconds with Magnus still locked within him and heat and electricity popping across their frames.  


Magnus pulled back from the kiss, swayed once, and set him as graciously as possible—which wasn’t all that gentle—onto the berth, servos braced on either side to cool down and reboot. It was a long few moments of systems restarting and cycling air, relishing in the white static and afterglow.  


“Ow,” Rodimus mumbled after a time, pain receptors finally indicating the servo shaped valleys etched into every major plate on his body.  


Ultra Magnus chuffed and then promptly choked himself. Too late, the sound echoed off the walls in the suddenly deathly silent quarters. Rodimus panned back over his shoulder with wide optics that read of shock and disbelief, then a mischievous grin stretched his mouth all the way to his audials and Magnus knew instinctively he was never going to live this down.


	7. Cyclonus&Tailgate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Cyclonus/Tailgate  
> Summary: You can’t blame the Highgrade unless you actually get drunk. (Spoiler Alert: He’s not.)  
> Rating: M (smut, sticky, sub!Cyclonus, top!Tailgate, NSFW)

It was the Highgrade. That was Cyclonus’s excuse. It always came back to the Highgrade. Why? Because it was so much easier to rationalize his actions—his desires—through the lingering haze of a tall cube of Engex than to simply admit just how much he enjoyed getting spiked.  


A low, harsh growl rumbled through his chassis as Cyclonus hung his helm back over the edge of the berth, energon rushing up to cloud the fritzing connections. Vents hitched slightly when Tailgate bucked out of rhythm, eliciting a pleased moan from his larger partner, and fumbled with the long line of his thigh as he tried to hike the leg over his shoulder, too heavy to lift and concentrate at the same time. Cyclonus smirked inwardly and lifted for him, letting the crook of his knee lay bent atop Tailgate’s shoulder crest. It allowed the mini mech deeper and at a more prominent angle, surges of electricity sparking up from his core, and Cyclonus growled his approval, long and low, and jetted a cloud of steam out his olfactory vents and overcharged engine.  


“That good?” Tailgate asked, trembling slightly, visor dim and quivering at the tight clench of his partner’s calipers. “Nngh—th-that’s—o-oh Primus. . . . Cyclonus, you’re—ah-h!—r-really tight. . . .”  


Cyclonus said nothing and just concentrated on the sensations coursing through him, half a mind to remind Tailgate to do the same. He tightened around his partner’s spike, cutting him off mid-sentence and breathing deep in pleasure from the slow grind along his slick nodes. Jet engines purred and Tailgate moaned, the vibration traveling up every inch of his frame and making his Spark quake in its chamber, shaking and thrusting ambitiously.  


“Mmnn, nn, hahh! C-Cyclonus, mh, oh Primus yes. . . .” Tailgate shuddered. Blunt white digits stroked his companion’s thigh with one servo, spike with the other, and nuzzled his facemask into dense violet armor. Cyclonus moaned heavily, all the encouragement Tailgate needed to try leveraging himself deeper. “Y-you don’t . . . do this o-often . . . do you, Cyclonus.” It was rhetorical, not really looking for an answer.  


Charge pounding through his core, Cyclonus’s Spark surged and he tensed to a sudden wave of ecstasy. He arched his neck back with a breathy groan, answering anyway. “Hmmmm, what do you think, Tailgate? How many—hhrrrrrrnnghh. Mnn. How many mechs do you think have had that honor? Of spiking me?”  


Tailgate wasn’t sure how to answer that, or, for that matter, if he was even serious about getting one. It was hard enough to think around the ancient warrior’s tight heat working him in the slow, pulsating draw of his calipers. Tailgate groaned and Cyclonus bucked his hips, reminding him of the task he’d set for his servos, and the little blue Bot picked up rubbing his spike again—long, slow strokes and a careful tweak of the head, pumping in tandem with his thrusts. Cyclonus was in pleasure. He was doing good. The last thing Tailgate wanted was to rush this.  


“Mh, I bet,” Tailgate began, vocalizers turned way down, “I bet very few. Maybe . . . less than—” Ten? No, that seemed too high. “h-h-aangh—e-eight?” No, that still felt too high. Cyclonus smirked, wringing a shrill whine out from him when he ground his dentas and constricted firmly. “Ooo-o-oh P-P-Pri-Primus, Cyclonus . . . ! L-l-less than fu-fiiiive?”  


“Lower,” he rumbled.  


Tailgate shook and activated probably a dozen other backup systems just to keep his joints from locking. Okay-okay. Less than he’d had. No surprise th-there. But Cyclonus had to have been young at one point, right? Surely he’d had numerous partners. Seriously, who in their right circuits could resist a mech of this caliber? But Cyclonus as the one on bottom? Tailgate could scarcely comprehend it: Cyclonus: young and promiscuous. Impossible. Nghh!—whoa, f-f-frag!  


Tailgate’s Spark fluttered and he moaned at the rising charge between them, thrusting his hips as consistently as possible. It was difficult. He wasn’t big by any means, especially not for the body type Cyclonus was ultimately designed for, but scrap if it wasn’t insane how tightly he could clench.  


His light blue flicker met with dark, smoldering crimson and Tailgate moaned, pumping his hips and servo in unison until Cyclonus hissed again, squealing his claws against the berth.  


“M-maybe,” Tailgate continued, “only . . . only three?”  


Cyclonus smirked. His chassis expanded a deep intake and tipped his helm back again, throat cables bared and silver and a bit dingy in need of a good polish, inhaled to capacity, and compressed his chest with a slow, raspy, steaming exhale.  


By Primus and the Well, that wasn’t fair. He looked incredible.  


Cyclonus droned richly, resonant in his chassis: “Lower.”  


Tailgate shook everywhere but in his constitution, so completely struck by the mech he was bedding. Primus, how had they ever gotten to this point? Become roommates. Friends. Lovers? Scrap, he had it bad for Cyclonus. So bad.  


“T-two,” Tailgate murmured, fumbling at the implications of going any lower.  


Cyclonus finally rumbled his answer, punctuated with an, “Including you,” and Tailgate felt the pressure uncoil from his Spark and send licks of blue electricity all the way down to his fingertips and pedes. He moaned, digits clenched beneath the lip of his partner’s thigh plating, and thrust a little harder, some small part of him disappointed to know this—having hoped beyond reason that he might just be Cyclonus’s first. A stupid thing to wish, yes, but second wasn’t nothing, either.  


“Galvatron,” Tailgate murmured, the name like an odd, foreign word on his vocalizers. He knew the meaning and the deeds of the mech behind it, but he could never fully comprehend the extent without having been there to see it himself. Galvatron was one of the mechs at the head of the Decepticon army, and Cyclonus once served as his top Lieutenant. And . . . something more? “I don’t . . . think I could possibly compare to that, Cyclonus. . . .”  


But Cyclonus’s response came with another exhale, dark red optics shuttered partially and lip plates slightly parted. He hummed and hitched his other leg around Tailgate’s waist and brought him farther forward, helping to strengthen his thrusts.  


“Mmm, don’t let it intimidate you, Tailgate,” Cyclonus purred. “You’re nothing to balk at, you know.”  


“I-I—” Tailgate stuttered, swearing his audios had glitched. “Wh-wha—? Nn!”  


He gasped and hitched, cut off when Cyclonus lifted his hips and brought both their arrays crashing together, striking and grinding over several of his deepest nodes. He moaned and did it again, two more thrusts before Tailgate caught on and physically grabbed him by his struts and met his partner halfway, repeating the thrusts again and again, hard.  


“There,” Cyclonus grated, dentas gnashed with pleasure and helm tilting even farther back, “just like that, Tailgate. Rrrrmmmh, just like that.”  


Tailgate moaned his name back to him, one of those few times he wished he had a mouth just so he could bite his lip or gnash his dentas like Cyclonus did. It looked so nice when he did it. Hips thrust harder, faster, enthralled with the way the Con shook ever so slightly, limbs twitching involuntary jerks with the charge building steadily higher in-between them. And then he grated out the smaller mech’s name and Tailgate thought he was going to lose it right then and there. He shifted forward onto his knees and slipped a servo beneath one of Cyclonus’s stabilizers.  


“C-Cyc-clonus,” he stuttered, “please. C-can I—mmn!—can I . . . ? O-o-on your side?”  


A mindless nod and the former Con flipped onto his right and watched, optics glazed with lust but still highly attentive, as Tailgate swung a shapely white leg over his thigh and entered him again with a well-lubricated schliick, leg propped up between the tall crest of his shoulder and neck. Cyclonus shuttered his optics entirely that time and raked gashes into the berth. He moaned.  


“Tailgate,” Cyclonus husked. “Move.”  


He did, and he held nothing back. Metal clashed roughly against even harder metal, paint chipping and flecking and transferring off onto the wrong bodies, and small servos clutched strongly into the Con’s thigh plating and pumped all along his throbbing spike. Prerelease fluid dribbled from the tip, but Cyclonus couldn’t bring himself to care as Tailgate gathered it up with his nimble, rounded digits and spread it down his length, aiding the pass of his servo and endeavor to work Cyclonus to completion. Pit, Tailgate really was a fast learner after all. Pedes curled and locked behind the minibot’s back, cramping from the force of the lock as his claws squeezed perfect servo indents around the edge of the slab.  


Nimble white digits groped all along his frame, pressing into seams forced open due to heat ejection, and Cyclonus groaned his lover’s name, commending him for his touch and the symphony of his vocals when he keened melodiously, the twists and rhythmic clenches of his valve and hips rocking to meet thrusts and the small blue mech’s servo. A few more well-placed touches was all it took—of Tailgate’s fingers pressing underneath his lowest spinal guard and physically popped the anchor securing it to his protoform; accidental or not, it sent an electric bolt rocketing right up to his processor on contact—and the rush of sensation tipped Cyclonus into a full-body arch, snarled, and overload crashed over him.  


Completion rang hard and Cyclonus’s Spark surged out its pent-up charge in one powerful volley. The calipers in his valve clenched and pulled and wrung a strangled cry out of Tailgate, the heat pooled behind his arrays rushed outward and his spike burst, spraying a hot jet of transfluid onto the berth and his vocals roared. Over the haze of static and his own engine revving, Cyclonus barely heard Tailgate as he went over with him. The hot rush of the Bot’s release rushed through him and aided the electrical impulses sparking and jolting down every circuit, resulting in a momentary system offset and cognitive whiteout.  


They came back down at the drip rate of frozen motor oil, and Cyclonus onlined his optics to find Tailgate slumped forward, propped up only by the leg over his shoulder. Cyclonus eased himself down and on his back, stiff from the exertion and angle of his leg, and made sure Tailgate wasn’t going to fall before letting go of him. The little blue Autobot braced into his hips, cycling rapidly. With enough care to swear it might be open-Spark surgery, Tailgate pulled out and shivered, unwelcome to the streak of arousal he experienced seeing his own transfluid rush out of Cyclonus’s valve like this. He groaned and collapsed onto the Con’s front.  


“Oh,” Tailgate said after a time, so drained in every way imaginable. “Wow. . . .”  


Cyclonus smirked to himself while he laid back, content to let his systems cool for a moment or two. Gingerly, he hooked one of his claws beneath the minibot’s faceplate and lifted it to meet him, all the while mindful of his current sensitivity.  


“You’ve been paying attention,” Cyclonus rumbled.  


Tailgate’s visor brightened subtly. “Well, yeah,” he said, vocals high and a bit harsh from all the sound they’d produced. “I figured, you know, after all we’ve ‘been through,’ I couldn’t just not take notes.”  


Cyclonus’s optics flashed and then dimmed way down, almost completely black with a nebulous smolder.  


“Mmmm, you’re starting to catch on, Tailgate,” he droned. “Good.”  


Cyclonus righted himself and coaxed Tailgate up onto his knees, claw hooked at the base of his chin and stretching his neck out to bare the vulnerable components underneath. Cyclonus leaned down and purred into the crook of the Autobot’s neck, nibbling so, so gently, “Show me what else you’ve learned, then, Tailgate. That is, if you think you’re up for it.”  


Tailgate’s visor dimmed and he whined headily. His Spark gave an anticipatory little kick, grappled at Cyclonus’s chest, and hauled himself up onto the Con’s lap with an insistent “yes,” or two, or ten. Cyclonus growled and smirked, grabbed his roommate around his voluptuous waist and flipped him over onto his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Anyone else for Cyclonus gettin’ fragged senseless by a Bot 1/3 his size? Anyone? Anyone at all? No? What about borderline explosive overload? Still no? Okay. –crawls into hole– ]


	8. Rung&Fortress Maximus2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Rung/Fortress Maximus  
> Summary: Sex therapy? (continuation of chapter 3)  
> Rating: M (sticky, fingering, oral, frotting, hurt/comfort, some gruesome flashbacks, NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dedicated to JenKristo~! Apparently I made her ship it so asdfghjkl If you don’t know who she is, tsk-tsk! Go check her stories out ASAP! Her fics are positively delicious and she’s such a sweetheart! X3 Also, special thanks to AndeChi and artoni (of Tumblr) for helping me figure this one out! Love you!]

“It’s okay, Maximus,” Rung murmured, shaky. His faceplate flushed with a rush of energon and chewed his lower lip. “We don’t have to do this if you’re n-not comfortable with it.”  


“No,” Fortress Maximus whispered, red optics shuttered partly. His vents puffed warm air against Rung’s chest and fogged the faint blue-green glow of his center orb. “It’s fine. I want this.” He paused to glance up at the smaller mech. “That is, if you still do.”  


Rung smiled quietly and nodded, grateful to be given the choice even though this unorthodox exchange had been his suggestion to begin with. Maximus recently suffered a particularly bad episode and Rung was reluctant to let him out of his sight, willing to do just about anything to repair the damage the lapse into memory caused. Somehow that turned out to include interfacing. ‘Comfort ‘facing’ was the layman’s term, but it had a more specialized designation which was, for the moment, evading Rung to great effect.  


Fortress Maximus’s lips grazed his chest plate, observant and tender and keeping close track of the responses elicited by his actions. Light gasps escaped the small psychiatrist with each light graze of lips and fingertips, giant blue digits tracing his arms, down his sides, hips, and nervous quivering legs, knees mashed together. Rung wasn’t the prettiest mech, no. He was gangly, small, fragile even for a mech his size, and his optics were a peculiar shade somewhere between blue and green, but Maximus had grown endeared to him during their visits. His genuine and earnest nature was a foreign thing, odd like it didn’t fit or have a place in this cold and bitter creature that was the world. And yet somehow it did.  


Through all the attention Maximus lavished on him, all Rung could do was lay on the berth and squirm. It’d been a long time since his last interface and he was embarrassed to admit he’d become somewhat rusty at it. The best he could manage between Maximus's kisses and touch was to grab his shoulders and hold on, occasionally working in a clutch or caress when he was coherent enough to consider his partner’s pleasure. At least Maximus didn’t seem to mind the occasional embarrassed hitch or overwhelmed fumble. Rather, he drank them in, tilting his helm into Rung’s palm when small orange fingers grazed his audio stacks and pushed back into the shaky knee touching his abdomen.  


Gradually, Fortress Maximus moved down Rung’s chassis, leaving tender licks and kisses in his wake that had the small therapist quivering and warm all over. He even squeaked at one point, jolted by a surprise dip of a glossa into one of his transformation seams, and bit down on one of his knuckles.  


“F-Fortress,” he gasped, helm tipped back into the berth padding.  


“You don’t do this often enough,” Maximus observed. It brought Rung out of his overwhelmed state. He preferred when the smaller mech could pay attention. “Why not?”  


“Oh. Well, I, um,” Rung began, searching for a response amid the delicate grip of enormous servos. “It’s that . . . m-my patients see me in a very particular light. Finding that I, well, have a life outside my occupation can be potentially jarring.” Maximus paused his ministrations and raised an optic ridge. “An impromptu moment of sonder is rarely gentle on a mending psyche.”  


“So, what? Other people aren’t supposed to view you as an individual? You’re only your occupation?”  


“Well, it’s more to do with our current, um, ‘circumstance’ than someone seeing me sitting down for a drink at the bar.”  


Maximus supposed he understood. That didn’t make it any more sensible, however. “You don’t want your patients to think you have a personal life,” he clarified aloud. “Much less an intimate one.”  


“N-no, it’s not—Oh. Um, well, yes. I suppose that’s accurate,” Rung admitted but frowned because it didn’t feel completely correct. “It’s complicated. Most would see this as unprofessional.”  


“It is unprofessional. Getting involved with a patient. “  


Rung sputtered and floundered. That wasn’t the explanation he’d intended, not at all. It only sunk him farther into the hole.  


“I-I—I have done research into this method,” Rung defended shrilly, flustered beyond all reason at Maximus’s almost imperceptible smirk. “I would not be engaging in this if I did not believe it would be beneficial to you, Maximus.”  


Maximus huffed. He knew that, but he could give Rung a tough time over how it appeared if he wanted. He wanted to continue teasing him, to bring up just how much this looked like the mind-savvy mech was taking advantage of one of his patients, but he knew Rung wouldn’t appreciate that. He placed his lips on the orb in Rung’s chassis, gave it a casual lick, and just enjoyed the way his frame spasmed and gasped, digits clasping onto the warden’s audio stacks to hold himself together.  


It was a shame he didn’t do this more often. Rung had such wonderful reactions. Or perhaps it was in light of how rarely this happened that he reacted so well. Hm. Maximus couldn’t help his curiosity as to what Rung might venture to reciprocate were he just a little fresher or more well-versed in the berth.  


Fortress Maximus moved his hands down Rung’s siding, digits grazing willowy orange hips and then tentatively spread his thighs. Heat radiated from the doctor’s center in slow pulsating waves just at the cusp of a building charge, lingering somewhere in the flustered limbo of a gray static haze that wasn't quite strong enough to make it anywhere. That was an easy fix. Maximus touched his fingers into the mech's interface hatch and rubbed it gently, attune to every little reaction: the way Rung squirmed and clenched his fingers into Fortress Maximus’s helm, a shrill whine and how he tilted his helm back helplessly with a soft fump onto the berth padding, the light static charge being built up by the slow, maddening back-and-forth and back-and-forth rhythm of Maximus’s digit over blistering hatches driving him somewhere—he wasn’t sure where anymore. It sent a jolt up through his struts and Rung gasped, dentas clenched and optics shuttered tight. The hard rub slowed after a moment, light kisses teasing along the edge of his center orb while slate-blue digits stroked delicate circles around the catch to his spike housing and mirrored the same movements over his valve.  


Maximus would be lying if he ever said he didn’t love how easily Rung got worked up over just a little bit of groping. His digits traced seams and shallow grooves until his arrays clicked open in two simultaneous snick’s, faceplate aglow with inexorable heat. Well aware of his partner’s state, Maximus murmured a few calm, encouraging, and endearing words to set Rung’s processor at ease and allay his awkward knee-mashing, going so far as to place a kiss at the corner of his mouth, one Rung grappled for and pressed himself into, either to distract himself or prevent Maximus from continuing whatever it was he had planned.  


Lips broke away with a careful nudge of his forehelm and Maximus quieted his nervous frets.  


“You think too much,” he murmured. His ex-vents were warm against the doctor’s face. Lips drifted over his suborbital plane down and across to his audio, breathing lightly into it. “You’re working yourself into a panic over nothing. Just relax. Enjoy yourself.”  


Rung shuddered and huffed once he regained some of his thought processes, meaning for it to sound somewhere between ruffled and amused but instead came out as exasperation verging on frenzied. “I-I know that. It’s just . . . been a while.”  


Where he couldn’t see, Maximus simpered. Rung could feel it against his audio frame, however, and it sent a white-glazed shudder down the side of his neck, lips parted with a gasp while one large hand toyed circles around his inner thighs. He squashed them together either in some feeble attempt to tuck himself away and hide forever or prevent Maximus’s hand from leaving that spot right there oh that’s it Primus that feels really good.  


Fortress Maximus breathed into his audio, glossa toying up the length of his receptor antenna just to hear him keen.  


“How long is ‘a while’ exactly?” Fortress Maximus breathed, gravelly and low.  


“T-t-too-oo long,” Rung mewled. “Much, much too long.”  


Maximus kept up his ministrations until Rung relaxed enough to allow his legs apart again, freeing up the former warden’s servo to continue along the inside of his thighs and stroke his exposed arrays. Digits teased circles around his valve rim, massaging external nodes and dipping inside to rub the sensors closest to the surface, collecting excess lubricant and spreading it around until his digits were slick and wet, even taking a moment to stroke his spike fully pressurized.  


With the utmost care, Maximus slid one of his digits in to the first knuckle and placed his lips at the corner of Rung’s mouth as an offering. He tensed instantly at the intrusion, dentas clenched and barely keeping himself together with the aid of Fortress Maximus’s kiss and clutching at his helm. Hips buckled into his touch, the slow push and draw and stretch around the thick shape clouding his processor better than a tall cube of Highgrade. One was all that was needed to render Rung a quivering mess, pushing and moaning into Maximus’s lips and rocking hand. He reached up and wound his arms around the larger mech’s neck. He clutched into mechanisms between Maximus’s treads, a sensation just jarring enough to slide the digit deeper without meaning to, past the knuckle and grinding on the pleasant zing of a key node. Fervid, Rung groaned. Their glossas toyed and danced together for a short while, first in Rung’s mouth and then venturing their way into Fortress Maximus’s, caressing and teasing and exploring, never once allowing their lips to hold still even as Rung moaned and pushed into both intrusions, pitching to the opposite of his partner’s rhythm.  


Fortress Maximus broke to allow Rung a chance to gather his wits and moved down the shallow curves of his frame. He kissed and tongued the panels of light on either side of his chest, glowing a warm low light that fluctuated with his EM field. He rocked his servo back and forth, stretching tightly clenched calipers as gently as his frame type would allow, palming the length of his spike, keeping Rung steady with his free hand and eased lower to his pelvic plating.  


“F-Fortress,” Rung keened, curling and grasping for his audio plates even as they slid steadily downward. “O-oh!”  


That’s what he liked to hear. Just relax, Maximus thought. Concentrate on the feeling. Do what feels good.  


“M-Maximus, hahh . . . !”  


Fortress Maximus shuttered his optics and smiled, licking and kissing and nibbling so, so gently.  


That’s it. Just enjoy it.  


Mmmm, there you go. That’s a good little Autobot, Maximus~  


A flash of molten purple shot up Maximus’s spine. Optics snapped open and he jolted back, clutching his helm. He never heard Rung’s alarmed stammer. Only laughing and grinding metal. Crying out and screaming until vocalizers shredded themselves. Black agony and a violet sheen in the dark. Wailing. Begging for the pain to stop. To put an end to it.  


Why won’t you just kill me . . . ? Please, just kill me, Overlord. . . . Please . . . please. . . . Kill . . . me . . . ! Please!  


Ah, but what would be the point to that, Autobot?  


The laughter carried on. Shrieking and grinding. Hacking, clanging, cutting. Molten heat pulling, twisting, tearing. Screaming.  


Kill me! Kill me! Kill me! Please, Primus, someone kill me!  


“—ort—ax—mus!”  


Fortress Maximus snapped back to a muted flash of bright white and the color orange. Rung was clutching to his helm and shaking, mouth moving without sound, optics aglow and brow plates pressed to a hard line of worry. Everything came back in a static-filled pop and burble of shrill silence.  


“—back, Maximus,” Rung was saying, “come back. It’s okay. You’re fine, you’re okay. No one’s going to hurt you, you’re all right.”  


Rung wasn’t shaking. He was. His entire frame, down to the core. His chassis ached, tanks churning and sick. Spark fluctuated to a current of horror and agony, fans roared. Rung wrapped his arms around Fortress Maximus’s neck and held him as tightly as he possibly could.  


He whispered into the flat of his shoulder panel, “It’s okay, Maximus. You’re all right, now. Nothing’s going to happen to you. No one can hurt you here.”  


Fortress Maximus trembled as he released his helm. Slowly, so slowly. Dizzy and numb, he feared he might have dented his own audials. It faded. All he could do to keep from collapsing was to put his arms out. Around Rung. To keep him close. Jaw components mercifully unclenched, dentas strained on the verge of cracking. They hurt. Everything hurt. His helm. His Spark. Everything. Primus, just make the pain stop.  


“It’s all right, Maximus,” Rung breathed. “You’re all right, now. You’re safe. That’s it. You’re okay. We’re done for today. That’s all.”  


Fortress Maximus opened his mouth to speak, but his vocalizers crackled with static. He waited a moment for the systems to reset and quelled the majority of his shaking.  


“No, I can do this,” Fortress Maximus murmured. “I want this.”  


Rung protested, “Maximus, please, you aren’t well. You need time to let your mind recover.”  


He tried to lift his helm from the larger mech’s shoulder but Maximus refused to release him.  


“I know that. That’s why I—” Fortress Maximus stopped himself, optics hidden in the shadow of his helm crest. He hesitated, unwilling to admit it at first, and it took a moment to find the right words. He buried himself in the smaller mech. “That’s why I want this. Why . . . why I need this. Please. Rung.”  


Something in his tone and in his words, it touched Rung on a level he was not accustomed to. His optics softened with the return of his grip behind Maximus’s helm, gentle and understanding.  


“I don’t want to be alone right now. Please.”  


“All right,” Rung finally whispered, allowed enough room to lift his head and look Fortress Maximus in the face. It was twisted and tense with pain. So much pain. Rung touched his jaw delicately to ease its clenching. Maximus was cold in places, feverish in others. “All right, Maximus. But we need to take this slowly, for both our sakes.”  


Fortress Maximus nodded once.  


Rung went on, “We’ll start out small. Nothing major for today. Just relax. Here, lie down.”  


That caught Maximus by surprise. “But, I thought you—?”  


“You should not be exerting yourself right now. Mentally or otherwise,” Rung interrupted, his smile tender and real. Thumb touched to the larger mech’s chin, stroking delicately back and forth. “Relax. Tell me if I do anything wrong.”  


Fortress Maximus lied down as instructed, watching as Rung climbed atop his chest and leaned down. He placed a kiss on his brow guard, then cheek plate, then his lips. Both their optics shuttered and Maximus placed his servos on his back and leg and leaned up to deepen it. Small servos stroked his helm, his neck, down his shoulders and chest. It was a familiar touch. Comforting, gentle, and practiced well over the past few weeks. Small digits that knew Maximus inside and out, all the sweet spots and places to avoid: an energon line under the left of his jaw that was delicate and sensitive when touched, a spot back between his treads that always made his vents hitch, and a place on his center spine that brought up bad memories.  


The kiss was long, tender, even passionate. They held each other, touching and exploring, some delicate groping to earn a gasp or shudder. Rung shivered and moaned when Maximus touched a place on his lower back, teasing the strut until it sent a charge to his Spark, and in turn Rung slid his nimble digits beneath his chest plate when it popped up the dispel the heat, fingertips grazing the edge of his chamber guard. Vents stuttered and Maximus tugged Rung down, kissing him harder as the two moaned at the other’s touches. He moved to roll over but Rung put his leg out and flattened his palm on the warden’s chest.  


“No,” Rung said, gentle but firm. Optics locked with the other’s, cycling increased. “Let me, Maximus.”  


But he seemed uncertain, wanting to protest. Rung had been hesitant before and he didn’t want the doctor to take up a task he might not be comfortable with. Fortress Maximus tried to explain this, but Rung simply smiled and quieted him with another kiss.  


“It has been a while, yes, but I am not inexperienced. Just relax, Fortress Maximus,” he said again. His optics dimmed faintly, smile quirking up in one corner. “Don’t think too much. Enjoy yourself.”  


Maximus chuffed but smiled at his own advice turned against him. It felt good to smile; he had so little to be at all happy about nowadays, and he was glad for these seldom opportunities to do so. So, when Rung kissed him again, it stayed. They vented together, lips moving and caressing until Rung broke away to move down Maximus’s frame, repeating the touches that’d been done for him until he reached his interface panel. Closed still but radiating intense heat, Rung palmed and stroked him gently so that a bliss-filled shudder was sent racing up his Spark. Fortress Maximus was able to keep his venting steady for the most part and willed his interface panel open. It did so readily, and his spike emerged fully pressurized. Rung took it into his hands and stroked and rubbed it experimentally, gauging from Maximus’s reactions if he was doing well. He seemed to be.  


Confidence coming through the uncertainty, Rung massaged his length in long, slow strokes and ventured further, planting a few kisses and licks along the underside and rising to tentatively suckle the head. Maximus moaned and pushed into his ministrations, repeating his name over in encouragement, pleading not to stop. That it felt incredible.  


“Rung,” he moaned, hips shuddering and fighting not to thrust in his partner’s lips while he licked and sucked and bobbed his helm.  


“Please. . . . Please, I. . . .”  


But Maximus couldn’t quite put voice to his thoughts, the request leaping back and forth along strings of white ecstasy. The words were there, but they were weighted down with desire, erratic. His processor was hazed, unable to make the necessary connections. His jaw hung open and lips moved without sound, components taut and in pleasure. Rung parted with one last kiss and lick to clear away a dollop of transfluid forming at the tip. Their optics met and Rung’s smile was there, Fortress Maximus’s gaze dim with desire.  


“Sshh, it’s all right. I understand,” Rung murmured and sat up. He pulled himself into Maximus’s lap until their spikes rubbed together. His sizable cable pressed into Rung’s abdomen and he massaged it up and down. “Let me take care of this, Maximus. Let me make you feel good.”  


Fortress Maximus nodded mindlessly, hips twitching with restraint not to thrust into Rung’s touch or roll him over like he so desperately wanted. Stroking their spikes tentatively up and down, getting a feel for the movements and rhythm to rock his own hips to, Rung ground them both together. He gasped softly and chewed his lip as light sparks of static leapt between their frames. Involuntary twitches shook them; it was a hassle to focus, to concentrate and not simply try to push for that one brief instant of release.  


The pace was slow, casual, and certain not to rush. Rung was bringing Maximus up, drawing out his charge, allowing the pleasure to be what centered him rather than the pain. Servos ran the length of his spike and rocked their undersides together, stimulating nodes all along the surface. Rung gasped softly, other hand braced into his hip for support and leveraged himself forward, spikes all but merged together. But Maximus was far from uncomfortable. He rocked against his movements in tune to the steady grind and reached down and wrapped his servo around them, surprising Rung with a wide but gentle grasp. He clutched their spikes together and ground his hips to compliment Rung’s, rocking slow and stroking their charges higher to a mind-numbing new rhythm.  


Light gasps and soft moans passed between them, hips bucking to sporadic, delirious jolts of pleasure. They murmured each other’s names under shallow ventilations, tattered with want and need but not quite allowing the finish just yet. Primus, it felt amazing. Rung’s valve clenched, slick and empty and needing, craving the fullness of a spike—Maximus’s spike—inside him. Scrap, he wanted it badly. To sink down on him until they both overloaded. But he was smarter than that, and Maximus was enormous. They had to take this step-by-step for both his own physical wellbeing and Fortress Maximus’s psychological welfare.  


“Maximus,” Rung panted. A charge of white electricity raced up his nodes right to his Spark, jarring him aware of just how close he was.  


Ventilations heavy and strained, Maximus panted and rocked his hips in time with Rung’s, gripping their spikes until the friction sent licks of pleasure leaping between them. The charges streamed up his Spark in currents of merciless ecstasy, building higher and higher as his cooling units roared, trying and failing to dispel the heat beneath his plates. He locked eyes with Rung, and seeing him in such pleasure—lips slightly parted and optics dim—made Maximus’s processor glitch and moan and tense as his charge broke without warning, sending him over.  


Heat, pressure, and a great well of electricity flared outward in every direction and his vents hitched, optics whiting out. Maximus’s jaw unhinged and arched his neck back, moaning out as his thoughts fritzed and blanked under a wave of euphoria; his spike burst a jet of transfluid into his servo, trembling and shuddering and venting heavily, Rung still and shivering in his lap.  


Fortress Maximus came back to himself piece-by-piece. The awareness of his body, overcharged circuits firing involuntary twitches and plates popping and crackling with heat, fans sputtering in an attempt to dispel it before his systems could be affected. That pressure that’d been surrounding his Spark, that clouded the forefront of his processor since being awoken, it felt . . . far away. It was still there, but distant, unimportant.  


Cognition came back lastly and Rung was sitting motionless in his lap, spike still hard against his depressurized one, and Maximus was suddenly distraught to realize it.  


“You didn’t . . . ?” he began to say but couldn’t get the words to form.  


Rung’s smile was there, genuine and understanding.  


“This wasn’t about me, Maximus,” Rung said. His expression was dubious, so Rung stretched up and pecked a kiss on Fortress Maximus’s lips to show he meant it. “Your wellness is what’s important to me.”  


He released him and backed away enough so their arrays weren’t touching anymore and began tucking himself away. But Maximus disagreed. He caught Rung’s hands and took the smaller mech by surprise when he turned him over and laid him back against the berth padding.  


“Maximus, what are you—?” Rung started to say.  


“I wouldn’t be a good partner if I couldn’t return the favor,” Fortress Maximus cut him off. Digits slid down to part his thighs again and rubbed circles around his valve rim, slick and hot and clenching on air, spike throbbing with need and still highly charged. Rung gasped and chewed his lip to keep his vocals down, but he couldn’t stop a reflexive buck into his touch.  


Rung stammered, “Not if you aren’t u-up for it, Maximus. You’re still recovering. You shouldn’t s-strain yourself.”  


“I’ll be fine, Rung,” he said, catching the doctor by surprise with the rumble of his own name. He placed his lips onto the smaller mech’s brow to hide the way the corners of his mouth began to curl. “For the first time in a long while, I think I’ll be all right.”  


Struck, Rung gaped at Maximus’s chin and then squeezed his optics shut to fend off a flow of lubricant attempting to leak out. He rubbed it away as Maximus backed off, and he reached up, took his helm in his hands, and leaned up to kiss him.  


“O-okay, Maximus,” he murmured, fighting back the heat in his face plates, “okay. Okay.”  


Fortress Maximus nodded, pinched Rung’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and drew him back into another kiss.


	9. Quark&Nightbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Quark/Nightbeat  
> Summary: Even friends need a good romp once in a while~  
> Rating: M (smut, sticky, NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I found this awesome gorgeous beautiful incredible ohmygod amazing luscious bit of fanart by mustachossom on Tumblr and holy shit my hands did a thing and I have absolutely no regrets whatsoever! Check them out yo!]

“Ngh. . . . N-Night—!”  


“Mmnph, fraggit, Quark,” Nightbeat panted, shuddering with ecstasy as the slim scientist rode him. The white and teal spinal panels rippled as he moved, and Nightbeat was mesmerized. “If you aren’t the damn sexiest thing Primus put on this planet. . . .”  


He trailed off, his train of thought disappearing in a burst of static. Quark shivered, barely able to register his companion's words over the roar of his charge pounding in his audios. His faceplates flushed hot with energon, gnawing his lower lip plate. He rolled his hips back, moaning his companion's name. An embarrassing cross of flattery and arousal radiated off his plates, but he had given himself a task and he wasn't about to let a few sweet nothings incapacitate him.  


And it was so much more fun not to let Nightbeat see him. He loved to twist all manners of expressions from the normally stoic scientist, so much so that to do so became somewhat of a game. And during interface, Quark wasn't about to play fair.  


He arched forward to rock his hips back, spinal column bowing out and rolling, hilting and grinding Nightbeat's spike into his valve. A burst of electrical discharge crackled from his overwhelmed dampeners and Quark gasped.  


Nightbeat cursed, grabbing Quark suddenly by the hips.  


Startled, the white mech stopped. He looked back. "Y-you okay?" he asked, concerned the discharge may have hurt him.  


But Nightbeat's face read of everything but pain. Helm tipped back, dim hue of his ruby visor iridescent and emanating complete rapture, and lip plates curved and parted in a smirk that said everything was good in the galaxy.  


"Ngh, frag, Quark, don't stooop," he slurred as soon as he could form a coherent sentence. He pulled his lithe companion back at the same time canted his hips forward, wringing a pleased little whine from the other. "Primus, do that again . . . !"  


It didn't take much to get that level of charge back up, and his dampeners began to fritz again. An annoying circuitry malfunction Quark had meant to fix eons ago had his job in research not occupied so much of his focus, but now it seemed more of a tolerable quirk than any manner of hindrance whatsoever.  


Nightbeat groaned, vocals thick with pleasure as licks of blue static leapt across their arrays. He gripped his hip in one hand, smearing a bit of lubricant left over from earlier that night, and guided Quark back into him as he reclined. He felt digits squeeze and pinch his knees, sending a few tiny jolts down to make his pedes twitch. Sexy little hellion, Nightbeat thought. Mmmm, and Primus what a view~ All the best scenery in the universe couldn't compare to that sweet little bend in Quark's lower back, the way he gyrated his hips and tipped his helm back, venting hot air through his intake and making the most devilishly wonderful sounds.  


"Careful, Night. Idol worship is a sin in most cultures," Quark murmured, glancing over his shoulder. Optics half-lidded, there was a gleam in them, but to Nightbeat it may as well have been a glimpse into Heaven.  


Woops. He'd said that aloud, had he?  


Nightbeat smirked. He captured his hips on the back thrust and leaned over him, grinding his hips into his aft until paint transfers wholly marred every square inch of their arrays. Static electricity jumped between them and Quark moaned out, clutching Nightbeat's shoulder for balance. His spike ground into so many nodes all at once it was almost too much to handle. Mph! Oh yes~ Yeessss!  


"Don't you know, babe," Nightbeat murmured. Like velvet pleasure on his audios and liquid heat pouring down his spine all at once. "There's no such thing as sin in making love."


	10. Whirl&Cyclonus2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Whirl/Cyclonus  
> Summary: Nothing gets the Spark goin’ like fragging the ever living scrap outta’ the mech you want dead~ (continuation of chpt 2?)  
> Rating: M (light bondage, more wonderfully consensual hate sex, NSFW, sticky, Whirl)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dedicated to Koch43 of Tumblr/DeviantArt because OMFG what a wonderful person! She made fanart for chapter 2 and OH MY GOD I CRIED WHEN I SAW IT IT’S SO INCREDIBLE!]

“Oh yeah~ Oh yeah~! That’s it, you old scrapheap, that’s it! Oooooooh~! Just like that, oooh!” Whirl moaned, angling his helm back, rocking his hips up and down.  


Cyclonus grit his dentas and snarled at the unwelcomed onslaught, pulling on the stasis cuffs lashing him to the foot of the berth. Though he would never admit it if asked, he was long passed the stage of resenting this little act and thoroughly into the part where he relished the opportunity to ruin Whirl’s valve. Their interface units crashed together, pounding until their panels dented and paint transfers marred more parts of their bodies than either cared to acknowledge. He was torn. Optics fixated on Whirl’s throat, divided between the thought of strangling the mech until his intake collapsed or pinning him to the deck and ravishing him into submission. Both would be considerably easier if he had use of his servos.  


Ngh, but Primus slaggit if he wasn’t an incredible frag.  


“Stop. Talking. Whirl,” Cyclonus grated, vents cycling hot air from his intake. His engine roared. He pulled harder at the restraints, willing them to break, but all the struggle earned him was a numbing jolt of energy dampeners down both arms, sapping the glow from his charge.  


“The more you struggle, the harder it’ll be for you t—ah! oooooh~ yeah right there mmmmngh~!—o-overload,” Whirl crooned as he rocked, driving down on Cyclonus’s spike.  


Cyclonus growled, system monitors straining with the duration of this punishment. Whirl had already gone through three overloads, not the least bit fazed thanks to some stimulant he claimed to have gotten from Atomizer, but Cyclonus had yet to reach his first. Every time his charge came to a peak, about to overload, the energy dampeners built into the stasis cuffs kicked on and sapped his charge just before it crested, bringing him back down to a maddening state of perpetual arousal.  


And it was rapidly getting old.  


“Take these off of me, Whirl,” the violet mech snarled as too-hot pleasure streaked across his Spark, “or Primus help me I’ll—”  


“You’ll what? Pound me to scrap metal? Tear out my voice box? Shred me to ribbons with your claws?” Whirl goaded, whining pleasurably. Pincers snapped closed around the old warrior’s throat, relishing in the red fury radiating from him. Dark optics smoldered with a potent blend of hatred and desire, and Whirl leaned down and ground their panels together. Paint shreds worn all the way down to bare metal, he forcibly hilted himself on his engorged spike, and Whirl murmured into Cyclonus’s taut jaw, “Mmmmnn, careful. You might just get me off with such sweet talk. . . . “  


“You’re sick.”  


“Yeah. But that gets you hot.”  


Rivulets of electricity coursed up Cyclonus’s frame and Whirl moaned as he utterly ruled those scorching circuits. Vocals thick and optic a curved slit of yellow pleasure, he rocked up and down, driving onto the other’s spike both for his own pleasure and Cyclonus’s sweet depravation of it.  


His frame ached. Cooling vents struggled to keep up with the heat pouring off his internals. It wouldn’t break. His charge was too high. Cyclonus vented steam from his intake, dental plates gnashed. Licks of white-hot energy danced through his Spark chamber, fritzed static through his processor, and fogged his optics. Hypersensitive circuitry picked up on the static surges jumping from Whirl's arrays, causing his own to begin to snowball. He was close. Whirl’s charge was building, white electricity skittering across his internal nodes and leaping to the old warrior's spike, zapping his charge higher, higher.  


His engine roared, scorching hot exhaust distorting the air above his intake, and Cyclonus rocked his helm back, bucking to meet Whirl's fervid thrusts, no longer caring. The charge was peaking. Almost—almost. The static swirled around his Spark, building, cresting, ready to break—ready to break—so close—then a familiar click and no not now—mnph—not now, not this time, slaggit, not this time not this time!  


He grabbed the chain and pulled. Hard. Stray electric runoff shot his circuits and snap!  


Cyclonus slammed Whirl to the floor. Claws shredded into his plates and he dominated him. Hammering into splayed blue thighs, he chased the tail end of that charge with the sound of Whirl singing in his audios, “Yes, yes, oh slag yeessss! Frag me into the floor, you slagger, do it! Oooooh yeeeesssssss~!”  


Cyclonus grabbed hold of his throat with the intent of stifling his vocalizers, but if the curve in his optic was anything to go by Whirl didn’t have a care in the world about his intake cutting off. He ravaged the mech under him with more intent to harm than please, and Whirl locked his legs behind Cyclonus’s back and rocked into every battering thrust. At last he felt his charge mounting unhindered, and both mechs went over the edge in a brutal explosion of pleasure.  


Helm arced back and digging his claws into thigh and throat, Cyclonus snarled his release. Whirl’s valve flooded with a scalding rush of too much transfluid, pouring against his mashed ceiling node and trapped by the spike hilted inside him; he whined ecstatically. The mixed gush of fluids poured down his aft and his vision fritzed out for a second, both mechs stunned, still, and waiting for their core functions to recalibrate.  


The stimulant in Whirl's system had finally worn itself off and he slumped, exhausted and sore, beneath Cyclonus. Claws released from around his throat and braced against the floor, the violet mech panting, finally allowed to come back down.  


“Oh, wow,” Whirl slurred, splayed out and cycling hard, the other’s heavy spike still imbedded deep in him. “Ooooh, that’s gonna’ leave one slag of a mark. Heh. . . .” He trailed off, chuckling. “Mmmm, you know Cyclonus—don’t tell no one I said this, but you’re a slaggin’ beast of a frag, you know that . . . ?”  


Were he in the midst of anything less than a post-overload high, Cyclonus would have just let it drop and left it at that, but he found himself leaning to Whirl’s audio nonetheless. He growled, grinding their hips so his half-hard spike grated against pleasure-buzzed internal nodes; with a wonton little cry, Whirl shivered at the unwelcome streak of arousal and pushed up to meet it.  


“I still have every intention of killing you, Whirl,” Cyclonus rumbled. “Don’t ever forget that.”  


“I know, junkyard, I know,” Whirl hummed, optic curved. “You, too.”


	11. Trailcutter&Grapple&Hoist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Trailcutter/Grapple/Hoist  
> Summary: Friends have a funny way of making everything better.  
> Rating: M (fluff, comfort, various cute, cuddles, tactile, “undressing,” oral) (I honestly didn’t mean for it to get smutty it just kinda happened)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [For Lucyofthesky because she’s such a wonderful sweetheart. I had an emotional breakdown a while back and she really helped me through it. *love love love*]  
> [Sorry, I really don’t know anything about Grapple so I’m running entirely on assumption here. Hope no one’s too terribly OOC! DX]

“Uh, oh, he’s making that face again,” Grapple said.  


Trailcutter jolted in his seat, concentration broken like the shatter of candy glass. The force field cut off and the glass of energon it was supporting dropped and clattered on the table before he could scramble to catch it. Fortunately there was little more than a few drops worth inside, so the splatter was minimal.  


Grapple and Hoist sidled one after the other into the booth in front of him.  


“Didn’t interrupt anything, did we?” Hoist asked.  


“Nah,” Trailcutter said. Righting the glass and setting it aside, he wiped the mess away with his servo but really only succeeded in smearing it. “Just, uh, keeping busy.”  


“Really that bored, huh?” Hoist said.  


Trailcutter managed to not let his expression make it too glaringly obvious. “Yeah. I’ve been getting a bit stir-crazy lately, I guess. Not much call for the one-trick-pony on side missions, you know?”  


“Eh, I wouldn’t say that.” Grapple leaned his elbow on the table and snagged two glasses of energon off the tray of a server drone making its rounds. He gave one to Hoist, took a swig of his own, and directed one digit at the mech across from them. “I mean, when was the last time you up and volunteered to go out? I know for a fact Ratchet and them coulda’ used some awesome magnawheels action back on Delphi.”  


As appreciative of the support as Trailcutter was, he still made a face.  


“That was a medical facility planet-side, not a space station with a faulty gravity synthesizer,” he said. “When would I have ever used them? To walk on the ceiling to keep out of range of the virus?”  


“Coulda’ used your force field,” Grapple defended.  


“And I would have already been infected by time they figured out it was spread by contact and activated by your T-cog.”  


Grapple’s brow plate dropped and he frowned. Ego wounded, he drowned it in a long draw of energon.  


Hoist’s shoulders bobbed as he chuckled.  


“Give him some slack, ‘Cutter. He has a point,” Hoist said as he leaned forward. “You should put yourself out there more. There’s no use to you staying cooped up on the ship if you’re just going to collect dust and mope. Go on some missions, see the galaxy. That’s what you wanted to do, right? Primus, even the two of us are going on the next supply run with Blaster and Skids. You should come, too!”  


Trailcutter glowered down at the table and muttered something about only being good at one thing. A firm clap on the shoulder jarred him out of it; Hoist grinned at him.  


“That’s the spirit,” the green mech smiled. “We’re docking on Ceris 32-9 tomorrow morning. Meet us in the airlock.”  


Trailcutter sputtered and leered. “Tomorrow? Hey, a little advanced notice would be appreciated!”  


“Life is spontaneous,” Grapple smirked. “That’s what makes it fun.”  


Trailcutter scowled. The server drone came back on another pass around the bar, and he snagged a glass of midgrade and knocked it back. Grapple and Hoist exchanged looks.  


“Trailcutter, what’s wrong?” This time, there was no humor in Hoist’s voice.  


He didn’t say anything at first. Concentrating, Trailcutter worked up a small force field under the empty glass and lifted it from his hand to the other end of the table. Neither mechs said anything. Just watched, waited, quiet.  


The pulse went wonky and the glass tipped. Grapple caught it before it fell and set it right-side up in its intended place.  


Trailcutter let his breath out and dropped his chin on his palm. “I guess I just . . . still feel sort of useless, is all.”  


“’Cutter, you single-handedly saved the ship from a Decepticon raiding party,” Hoist said, disbelieving.  


“Because I wanted a Rodimus Star. I wanted the validation. I wanted to be recognized.” Trailcutter leered at his hand, absently tracing squiggles of gibberish in the dried fuel residue.  


“You told Lockdown to frag off to his face,” Grapple said. “Lockdown. You sent him and his crew packing with their tailpipes between their legs.”  


“I bluffed,” Trailcutter said.  


“It worked,” they said.  


“You did all that without using your force field,” Hoist said softly. He reached across the table and took Trailcutter’s hand, working the digits out of a clench he hadn’t realized he’d been doing. “You tricked them something fierce, ‘Cutter, made fools out of ‘em and sent them running before they could hurt anyone.”  


Trailcutter frowned. “But they shot—”  


Hoist cut him off, “Yes, they shot Whirl. Everyone shoots Whirl. Haven’t you noticed? The mech doesn’t die.”  


Trailcutter chuffed and immediately regretted it. Remembering that always made him feel guilty. It was his cowardice that got Whirl hurt in the first place. Even if the ex-Wrecker had yet to hold it against him, it didn’t stop the cold twinge of remorse from prickling the back of his processor.  


Rough, gray digits traced the circular outline of the force field generator in his palm, and Trailcutter followed it up to Hoist’s faceplate. The yellow glow of his visor was dim, earnest, his tone soft.  


“You’re more than your force fields, Trailcutter,” he said, “even if you don’t think others can see it. You’re clever, resourceful, and slag if you can’t hold your own when it counts. You’ve saved a lot of lives, and not just on this slagged up voyage.”  


Trailcutter fixed his optics on the table and felt a smile despite himself.  


“I—” He began to speak, but stopped when he realized he wasn’t quite sure what to say. A flush of energon pooled heat behind his faceplate, and Trailcutter hoped it wasn’t enough to show through. Figuring he wasn’t going to do his gratitude justice anyway, he settled on something simple. “Thanks, guys. I guess I just needed to hear that.”  


Grapple smiled, too, and gave his shoulder a playful slug.  


“That’s my mech,” he said.  


They fell into light talk and casual conversation, and Trailcutter was feeling openly grateful for his friends who could get him out of a rut when he needed it. Eventually, the topic came up of what Grapple and Hoist had planned for the rest of the evening, as all three mechs had finished their shifts for the day. Trailcutter expected them to say something about projects going on back in Hoist’s workshop, but he was surprised when instead the pair glanced at each other. A smile wiggled its way across Grapple’s lips and Hoist’s visor brightened a shade.  


“Actually, Grapple and I were going to head back to his habsuite after this. His roommate has the nightshift, and we sort of felt the need to work off some excess energy,” Hoist said.  


Trailcutter’s cheek plates flushed instinctively. He tried to hide it behind a drink of energon, but when Grapple winked at him his spinal strut jerked taut.  


“Buuut,” Grapple piped in, “we were sort of hoping you’d be up for a little Mech-In-the-Middle.”  


He choked. All tact evaporated in a puff of static-laced vocalizers and Trailcutter sputtered and coughed and the two across from him looked equally surprised.  


“Mech-in-the—!” Trailcutter stopped himself and glanced around, praying no one was within audio range of that. Fortunately, if anyone had heard they didn’t care enough to look their way.  


Quieter and through mildly clenched dentas, Trailcutter reddened, “A-are you guys serious?”  


“Well, yeah,” Grapple said, confused but not wholly put-off by the reaction. “We were just stoppin’ in to get a couple drinks when we noticed you looking sour, so we thought it might cheer you up if—”  


Before Grapple’s indiscreet babbling could sink him much further, Hoist elbowed him in the side and jarred him quiet.  


“What Grapple means,” Hoist cut in, ignoring the yellow mech’s almost-offended pout and turning his focus wholly on Trailcutter, “is we wanted to invite you because we thought it might help you take your mind off whatever was bothering you. I was hoping we could cheer you up a bit first, and I’m glad you’re feeling better.”  


Hoist’s servos were still on the table, and Trailcutter looked down at them, too distracted by the offer to hold direct contact with either of his friends. He was no newspark by any means, and this certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been approached with the offer of blowing off steam. As far as Trailcutter was concerned, both Hoist and Grapple were virtuosos with their servos and beasts when it came to interfacing. The thought had just never come to mind about having them both at once before. And, quite frankly, as fantastic an idea as that sounded he wasn’t certain he was up for that kind of a workout at the moment.  


Trailcutter hadn’t realized he was touching Hoist’s servo until those digits were interlocking with his. Still, might be nice to have some company.  


“We’re not trying to coerce you, ‘Cutter,” Hoist went on. Vocals light, the glow of his visor soft with a smile. “Just offering in case you were interested.”  


Grapple leaned his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm. “Nothing strenuous if you’re not up for it,” he added. “Just three mechs enjoying each other’s company.”  


“You already had something planned, though,” Trailcutter said once he found his vocal circuits again. “I don’t want to put a wrench in anything. Er, so to speak.”  


Hoist’s visor brightened a shade and curved upward at the edges. Grapple grinned.  


“You’d be surprised how often a change of plans can turn things for the better,” Grapple mused.  


\-----  


Trailcutter was phenomenally glad he decided to take the two mechs up on their offer. This was, ah, sooo much nicer than sulking alone in his habsuite.  


Two sets of servos grazed up and down along his frame. Some digits pressed into hip seams, others followed the valley of his spinal column all the way up to delve into the empty anchor points where he’d removed his back and shoulder mounts. Without them, Trailcutter felt bare, vulnerable, but the digits pressing into those sensitive new openings parted his lips and sighed and suddenly all he could think about was how he wanted them to never stop.  


Hoist’s silver faceplate descended into his view and nudged its way under his chin. His digits slid into open seams along Trailcutter’s chassis, lightly tugging and pinching hidden bundles of wires. The cool edge of Hoist’s mask nuzzled against tender throat cables until Trailcutter had to tilt his helm back to make room, dental plates shivering with delight.  


Ah-h, he gasped.  


At the same time, Grapple’s servos ascended along the patterned ridges of his spinal column. Talented digits worked their way under the edges of various black, red, and silver plates and coaxed them up, off, until the anchors secured to Trailcutter’s frame disengaged and allowed Grapple to lift them free. Each fell beside the berth in a heap.  


The sensitivity of his derma was maddening. Protoform left bare, even the inconsequential static charge in the atmosphere was another touch entirely: licking at his derma and exposed sensory nodes, skittering cold air over hot receptors. The amount of white noise coming in was making it impossible to concentrate.  


Trails of Grapple’s torturous kisses wove between his shoulder struts, mouthing the rounded edge of the socket joint and massaging outlines where digits had passed earlier. The yellow mech’s glossa laved up the length of Trailcutter’s nape making him tense and bite his lip.  


Trailcutter’s jaw fell open. A quiet breathy moan escaped him, and he almost didn’t hear the faint snick of Hoist’s faceplate transforming aside. Warm lips pressed to the corner of his open mouth, and Trailcutter leaned into it needily. Shaking servos clutched at the green frame before him as another pair of lips descended to ravish the hydraulic cables connecting his neck to his shoulders. Dentas grazed the protective lining and he hissed, but Hoist’s glossa darted into his mouth and silenced him.  


“Primus, guys,” Trailcutter vented. A perfect, mindless thing to mutter to the two mechs caressing him.  


He felt the curve of Hoist’s lips, and where Trailcutter couldn’t see he and Grapple exchanged looks. Hoist drew away from his lips to plant lines of kisses down his jaw and neck, gingerly taking a main fuel line between his dentas and sucking it until he squirmed. Trailcutter bucked, clutching into Hoist’s chassis. A hard groan rippled through his vocalizers and another servo hooked under his chin and eased his helm around; Grapple captured his lips in a slow, passionate kiss. Hoist’s servos delved into two transformation seams just above his headlights, pressing and tugging and teasing and lifting until the anchors popped and Hoist eased the plates up and off, suckling Trailcutter’s intake tube.  


It was maddening. It was torture. It was driving him to glitch, and every second Grapple and Hoist dragged it out was absolute bliss. Trailcutter’s charge had heated his arrays to an amorous smolder, the arousal painfully obvious as he rutted his panels into the invading push of Hoist’s thigh.  


“H-hah,” Trailcutter gasped, devolving into a wanton moan as Grapple slid his glossa along his bottom lip and delved into his mouth, lip plates merging in a deep, greedy kiss.  


Hoist’s servo slid around his knee and hooked it up over his hip, nudging his thigh into the fork of his legs and grinding into those smoldering panels.  


Trailcutter cursed a delicious little whine, and Grapple ate it up.  


There was groping and shifting as Trailcutter moved, resituating until Hoist’s servos circled around his waist and brought his aft flush to his crotch plate in a slow, lustful grind. He mouthed at his friend’s nape, shoulders, and nipped the rounded edges of his protoform.  


Shivers quaked through Trailcutter’s frame. Grapple tugged his leg up and rocked their hips together harder than Hoist had, grinding him back as Hoist mirrored the motions. Ventilations hot and rapid, Trailcutter grasped for whatever plates they could get hold of. Fraggit, he couldn’t take this. His charge was too high. His spike was pressurized behind its panel, straining and uncomfortable, valve lubricated and needing.  


Hoist’s servo slid down and pawed at his crotch plate. Trailcutter jerked. His mouth fell open. There was fire in his circuits, and he ground into that scraping pleasure even as Grapple’s glossa delved along the lining of his dentas. He moaned a name, one of their names—he hadn’t paid attention to which. It garnered a reaction from both of them. Hoist’s digits dug into his waist and rutted harder against his crotch and aft, firm circles tracing the catch to his valve cover while Grapple turned to maul his throat.  


Static skittered across his protoform. Sensory nodes fired misplaced signals against the onslaught of stimulation, and Trailcutter groaned as his panels snapped shamelessly open. Grapple sighed against his intake tube, breathy and warm.  


The next thing Trailcutter knew, he was on his back. Helm tipped backward into Hoist’s lap, the green mech leaned down and caught his lips in a slow kiss, digits running the length of his exposed neck cables and up his chin. Grapple slid down his chassis, mouthing trembling abdominal plates and nipping and tugging naked wires wherever he found them.  


A servo wrapped around his burgeoning spike and pumped long, languid motions. Trailcutter gasped, disengaging from Hoist’s lips to peer down at Grapple over the rapid rise and fall of his chassis. The yellow mech’s digits teased the slick rim of his valve.  


“I-I thought you said we weren’t gonna’ interface,” Trailcutter panted.  


Grapple looked up at him, blue eyes dim with lust. Trailcutter swallowed. Hoist’s servos teased the nape of his neck.  


“Do you want me to stop?” Grapple asked.  


“N-never said that,” Trailcutter said.  


Grapple nodded, and he descended to drag his glossa around the base of his spike. Oral lubricant crackled on contact with the searing panel, static runoff leaping across the sensory nodes in his mouth and across his lips. The barrage of sensation was a bit startling, the farthest thing from unpleasant. He took the spike in his mouth, moaning as the hyper sensitive lining tingled around the heat of Trailcutter’s spike.  


S-s-s-sc-scrap, Trailcutter groaned silently. All further thought processes shorted out as Hoist came down again and stole another kiss, powerful this time. Servos shot up and took hold of the green mech’s hips. Clutching like an anchor, it was all he could do to keep it together while Grapple bobbed his helm up and down, two digits plunging in and out of his oversensitive valve. Deftly twisting and scissoring the tender valve lining, Grapple took his spike all the way to the back of his intake and Trailcutter cried out.  


Legs twitched and spasmed, hips rocking against the ecstasy until Grapple settled his full weight on his thighs to keep him still. Trailcutter gnawed the inner lining of his cheeks, Hoist’s fiery kisses working to undo him harder than magma roiling its way up from a planet’s core.  


Hot air poured off his frame in waves. Digits dug into transformation seams at Hoist’s hips, and he could feel the searing touch of his interface panel under his helm. Trailcutter wanted to tell Hoist to open it, to let him make him feel good, too, but Grapple’s following moan—long and low and Primus diabolical—undid him with a hard burst of electrical ecstasy. Overload crashed over him and Hoist devoured whatever shill sounds escaped him. Distantly, he could feel Grapple’s throat components working to swallow his release, digits twisting and curling in slow, leisurely strokes to draw out the pleasure until Trailcutter was utterly spent.  


He collapsed limp in Hoist’s lap, vents roaring to cool his overheated systems. Dimly was he aware of Grapple clearing away the mess with a cleaning rag, and then he was being shifted again. Strong arms wrapped him up as he was pulled into a warm green chassis. Another settled behind him and wound him in tighter, trapped between two warm frames, tired and safe, his neck nuzzled and brow guard kissed.  


Trailcutter could still feel the heat coming off their arrays, however, and he squirmed a bit as Grapple planted a number of chaste kisses over the back of his helm.  


“You guys,” Trailcutter murmured, some systems still rebooting after such a great rut, “you’re . . . you’re still charged.”  


“Don’t worry about it,” Hoist whispered, facemask still disengaged so he could brush his lips over the tip of Trailcutter’s nose.  


“But—” He started to protest, not wanting his friends to go wanting after he’d been so well taken care of.  


Grapple cut him off, exhaling against the back of his audio. Trailcutter thought he could hear that satisfied little smirk in his tone. “You can pay us back another time, ‘Cutter. When you’ve got enough energy to spare. How’s that?”  


“Enough to spare,” Trailcutter repeated. He could deal with that. “Okay. Sounds great.”


	12. Rewind&Chromedome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Rewind/Chromedome  
> Summary: Movie night doesn’t go as planned, but maybe it’s for the best.  
> Rating: T (big dumb wonderful robots, fluff, couch cuddles, robots making out)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Because I am in desperate need of some pointlessly adorable rainbow-vomiting romance in my life right now.]

Movie night turned out to be a bit of a bust. Rewind had spent all week advertising it and still only Drift, Tailgate, and Pipes showed up. Trailcutter and Swerve managed to stick around for the opening half but left when someone commed Swerve over a ruckus in the bar—something to do with Whirl and one of the server drones. Even then, the others didn't stay for long: Rodimus commed Drift about a meeting, Tailgate remembered something about a lesson with Cyclonus, and Pipes apparently had a bet going on with Jackpot over whether Perceptor would lose his mind over Brainstorm which appeared ready to pay off.  


That left Rewind and Chromedome the only ones left.  


A disappointed Rewind watched the screen from his endura's lap, sulking over his party going up in smoke, but when Chromedome nuzzled into the back of his helm he thought maybe it wasn't all that unfortunate. Between their assigned duties, rarely did they get this much alone time during active hours. It was a welcomed reprieve.  


Things were slow that cycle. Lazy. One of those few times where the entire ship's mood seemed to coordinate. Everyone was in good spirits, hanging out, having drinks, playing pranks, and best of all no one could be bothered to rush.  


Warm arms wound around his tiny waist and Rewind nestled back into his love’s chassis. The movie was a pre-war documentary on the Ark I, one of Rewind's favorites, and while that meant Chromedome had seen it hundreds of times that never made it any less special.  


Lazy nudges kissed the back of Rewind's helm and Chromedome pulled his legs up. He tugged the small archivist as close as their frames would allow, tucked into the neat crevasse under his chest plate.  


Rewind huffed.  


"Chromedome," he whined, squirming halfheartedly. "I'm trying to watch the movie."  


"No you're not," Chromedome chuckled, vents warm against the minibot's neck cabling. The little shiver it earned him was something to cherish. "You've seen it a thousand times. You have every line memorized."  


"So? I see you a hundred times as much, but I don't get tired of you."  


That got a smile from the mnemosurgeon. "That's different," he hummed. "You have to enjoy me."  


"Says who?" Rewind said.  


"Says me."  


Chromedome snatched the little archivist up by his waist and tickled his nimble digits like mad into blue-black plates. A giggling shriek split from Rewind as he thrashed in his hold, squealing and laughing and trying to elbow him in the chin. After much pleading and shrieks, Chromedome finally let go and bound him up tight. He locked Rewind's arms against his sides and nuzzled on the little mech's neck.  


"Oh, I'm going to get you for that, 'Domey," Rewind said, struggling meekly and then giving up when he couldn't get any leeway. "I'm going to get you so bad, and you'll never see it coming."  


He didn't believe a word of it, but Chromedome wasn't about to let him know that. A few threats of future interface depravation later, they returned to the movie and bit by bit Chromedome released his hold. They lied down together, the little bot cuddled up against his lover's rounded chest plate. One arm trapped under the archivist's tiny frame and the other draped over his siding, Chromedome sighed, smiling under his faceplate. The threats drifted out of mind as the film played, forgotten in the background.  


Rewind toyed with his endura's fingertips and inspected the needle slots, satisfied and proud to find no signs of wear or recent use. Knowing his love was watching, he took the digits one by one and nudged tender kisses into the knuckles. First the smallest, then the next; the middle digit he nuzzled and cooed to like a tiny newspark; the forefinger he hooked around his servo and nuzzled and nudged, and the joint of Chromedome's thumb he kissed and hummed against.  


Chromedome watched every second of this, yellow visor dimmed way down to an adoring gold. Stealing his hand back after a time, he traced the red edge of Rewind's jaw and followed it until it disappeared under the white of his helm guard. Inching up and up, he gingerly tugged his helm around to see him. The soft blue glow of Rewind's visor smiled up at him, and Chromedome saw the blinking red camera light.  


"You're recording this," Chromedome said, admittedly a little flattered. It was a wonder Rewind had any memory space at all with how much footage he must have of just him.  


"Don't want to miss a second of how cute you are," Rewind toyed.  


Chromedome's visor flashed then darkened. His facemask transformed open revealing a smirk. Rewind's responded in kind, and he twisted around to face the mnemosurgeon, arms rising up to circle around his neck.  


"I'm cute, am I?" Chromedome murmured, stroking between his endura's shoulder panels.  


Rewind leaned up, warm puffs of air venting on the other's lips. "Oh, yes. Sinfully. It's really not fair at all."  


A low purr kicked up in Chromedome's engine. "And what are you going to do about that, Rewind?" he asked. He blew in the smaller mech's face and grinned when his faceplate scrunched.  


Facial sensors disturbed by the cold gust, Rewind pouted. A servo slid up and down his back and another pinched his chin, lip plates brushing the tip of his nose. He smiled, fingering the nape of Chromedome's neck.  


"Whatever I can get away with," Rewind said.  


Chromedome rolled on his back as a tiny frame planted itself on his chassis. Their lips merged, too small butting up against too big. It was awkward. They didn't fit right. Chromedome's servos were too large for his frame; Rewind's arms were too short to reach comfortably around him. They had to crane to kiss each other, even to hold servos when they walked, and interface was a constant exercise in equal parts balance, reach, and flexibility.  


It wasn't perfect, but it was theirs, and that was enough.  


What Rewind's smaller lips lacked in size, they made up for in motion and dexterity. They teased Chromedome's lips, kissing and sucking and pressing all the right buttons in perfect succession: a lick here, a nibble there, and a long, hot, passionate kiss in-between.  


Chromedome shuddered at a point. Small, lissome digits trailed the length of his exposed cervical wiring. "'Wind," he moaned, gasping as a smaller servo caressed an arterial line.  


Rewind's lips curled into a smile, and Chromedome followed him up until he drew just out of reach. Looming over his larger partner from a deceptive angle, the look on the archivist's face was anything but innocent.  


"Mmm, I thought you wanted to watch your movie, Rewind," Chromedome hummed, palming the smaller bot's back struts.  


"I still do," he said. Leaning down, he propped his servos on either side of Chromedome's helm and nudged into the flat of his brow. He whispered, "But you're making it awfully hard to concentrate."  


Chromedome smirked. Servos wound around Rewind's narrow middle and tilted up to tease his lips along the minibot's intake tube. "My mistake," he breathed, warm against the fluttering conduit. "I'll stop. Wouldn't want you to get mad at me, after all."  


Rewind chewed his lip plate. "Mmmn, don't you dare, 'Domey."  


Chromedome bent his knee up and flipped them around in one swift twist. Rewind's laugh was music in his audials. Smaller servos clasped his helm and Chromedome allowed himself to be tugged into a deep, loving kiss. He slid both arms under Rewind's waist and wedged them between the cushions, settling his weight on the minibot's legs.  


Thoroughly pinned, cuddled, and the farthest thing from uncomfortable under his partner's warm heft, Rewind giggled and kissed him and ran his servos over the back of Chromedome's helm. Lips moving together, long digits stroked lovingly along his siding and sent shivers up his tiny frame. It wasn't intended to tickle—thank Primus, or he'd probably kick him in his face. But it did feel nice: little feathery brushes traipsing his spinal plates and up to tease the raised lines of the biolights on his shoulders. Rewind shivered, forced to alternate between pressing for more and shying away from the too-delicate touch.  


"Mmmm, Chromedo~o~ome," Rewind whined, soft and needy and perfect.  


Chromedome nipped and kissed and loved on Rewind's lips, thumbing gentle circles on his suborbital plane, and teased his glossa along the supple line of his lips. "Rewind," he moaned back, breathy and wonderful, and Rewind gripped his audials and pulled him in harder, deeper and hungrier and—Primus, he loved it when Rewind got this way.  


Their glossas made love, stroking together and entwining, warring amidst their endura's familiar taste. Rewind's digits gripped into Chromedome's shoulders, massaging the seams and raised edges between different colored plates while Chromedome turned the same treatment on his lower back and pelvic unit.  


It was a time before they finally broke apart again. They looked at each other, scant inches of air between them. Rewind smiled. He pressed his brow plate into Chromedome's and a tiny jolt of static leapt between them. They jumped, startled, and stared at each other. A grin split across Rewind's face and they laughed. Primus, really laughed. They held each other and guffawed like the biggest, happiest idiots in the galaxy, and together they felt a weight lifted from their chassis neither realized they'd been carrying.  


Chromedome laid his helm on Rewind's front and nestled into the soft glow of his biolights. They returned to the film, nearing its end. Smaller arms wound around his helm, kissed the top of his brow, and gently squeezed. The same way they did when someone else's memories surfaced to haunt him.  


Comfortable, warm, satisfied, and safe, Chromedome was just starting to doze when the credits began to roll, so relaxed in his endura's arms. A smaller faceplate nuzzled into his helm ridge and vented warmly. They felt each other. The steady rise and fall of their intakes, the hum of electricity in their circuits, and a low, powerful thrum of life in their Sparks.  


Rewind whispered, "I love you."  


Chromedome lifted his helm just enough to see his face. He was smiling at him, a self-conscious flush pooling energon behind the archivist's cheek plates. How many millennia had they been Conjunx Endura and Rewind still got embarrassed whenever he said it?  


But Chromedome didn't comment. He simply smiled, touched their brows together, and whispered in turn, "I love you, too."


	13. Tailgate&Cyclonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Tailgate/Cyclonus  
> Summary: Morning sex is the best~  
> Rating: M (smut, sticky, absurd floof, NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [No particular reason. Just wanted to.]  
> [Reference made to ceryskitty’s fic New Equipment. If you’ve never read it, you should totally check it out on Tumblr or AO3, just sayin’. It’s fucking great and great fucking.]

It was lazy, slow. In those wee hours of the morning cycle when everyone but the maintenance crews were still in recharge.  


A time of morning when Tailgate and Cyclonus found themselves online together but not quite awake. An idle hour where Cyclonus turned over in his berth, crimson optics partially shuttered in the dark, and met the dim blue glow of Tailgate’s visor. In the back of his processor, Cyclonus wanted the minibot to not be so far away. And yet, with Tailgate looking back at him, neither said a word yet both understood.  


A lazy ex-vent warmed the emptiness between them, and Tailgate climbed out of his recharge slab and into Cyclonus’s. No doubts, no thought, not even the faintest hint of a question or to voice the words at the tips of their glossas.  


Cyclonus scooped him up and pulled him close. Frames warm with lingering recharge commands, their circuitry hummed beneath their plates, dormant systems not yet fully active. They pawed languidly at one another, inhibitions dulled, craving nothing and yet yearning for everything.  


Cyclonus dipped down, grazing his dentas along timid throat cables, nibbling and venting warm air. A giggling Tailgate stretched up to nuzzle the hollow of his cheek.  


Between the little loving strokes and caresses, curvy white legs hooked behind violet knees and stroked up and down. A nuzzle on violet chassis here, thumbs tracing the hard line between armor there, and in-between little white digits were somehow able to find that one wire cluster in Cyclonus’s spaulder the old mech had never told him about.  


Such innocent touches usually earned Tailgate a surly huff and his servos batted away in favor of a firmer grip, but this time was different. Encouraged by the idle engine purr and a rare, chaste kiss on the lip of his helm, Tailgate squeaked in delight and hiked himself farther up Cyclonus’s frame.  


With his minibot nestled in the crook of his neck, well beyond his barriers, Cyclonus strummed his claws along Tailgate’s spinal ridge. It wrung so many sounds from the little bot: a keen, a croon, a shivering whine in Cyclonus’s audial, and at the thumb claw tracing circles on the broad curve of his hip plate, Tailgate’s servo clung to the back of his helm and ex-vented hotly. Cyclonus could conduct an orchestra with the sounds he made.  


So easily ruffled by the slightest touch, and Cyclonus ate it up.  


The pace neither quickened nor tapered off from there. Not even when Cyclonus rolled onto his back and drew the smaller bot up his chest. Tailgate’s mask folded back, and the two were kissing. It was awkward, strained. Cyclonus’ lips were hard, unyielding, and not shaped right. Tailgate didn’t have any real experience to fall back on aside from what research he did and what trysts he stumbled upon in odd hallways working late nights with the maintenance crew.  


It mattered little, because when Tailgate cupped the old soldier’s helm and brought them closer together, he did so with a confidence Cyclonus wanted to commend. He gladly accepted Tailgate’s miniscule weight, and he cocked his helm and shuttered his gaze, optics a sliver of red in a blue-white shadow.  


At some point among the pawing, stroking, kissing, and caressing, Cyclonus found his panel open and spike pressurized. They broke from the kiss, and Tailgate’s visor brightened so subtly it could have been a trick of the light.  


Without getting up, Cyclonus rummaged through the table drawer between berths and produced a tube of lubricant which he offered to Tailgate.  


As uncanny an offering as it was, Tailgate could only feel glad for the other’s thoughtfulness. Despite his arousal, not all Tailgate’s systems were fully active yet, and to attempt interface without his lubricating functions working could be dangerous for both of them. He took the tube gladly and shimmied his way down Cyclonus’s lap, sitting between his thighs as the bigger mech pushed up on his elbows.  


Uncapping the lube, Tailgate spread a generous amount along his love’s spike. He took his time making sure the coating was even, drawing out the long strokes from top to bottom, massaging both servos up and down, his grip firm. Dark red optics closed, and if the low, bodily engine purr was anything to go by Cyclonus certainly appreciated the extra attention.  


Tailgate willed his valve cover open and rose up onto his knees, steadying over Cyclonus’s jutting spike with some help. Their optics locked, and Tailgate was treated to watching the old warrior’s expression as he sank down on his spike.  


Fully seated, they remained like that for a while. Perfectly still. Just feeling each other. The initial ache of being stretched like this, well beyond Tailgate’s usual capacity had it not been for several weeks of careful work to stretch him, was quickly dulled by a pleasant haze. The throbbing Tailgate felt inside only intensified thanks to the low, low rumble beneath him. Claws strummed his hips like a master’s instrument.  


Slowly, so slowly, Tailgate rose up, lingered there with the spike tip just barely keeping inside, and allowed himself to fall again. Tailgate moaned. White servos groped along violet plains of armor, nicked, scratched, battle-scarred, and Primus beautiful.  


Each passing day they spent together made Tailgate’s desire to tell Cyclonus just out beautiful he was grow, but fear of his heartfelt compliment being dismissed terrified him. Primus, he was gorgeous, though: the color of his plates, the curve of his horns, the sharp edges and contours of his face, shadows cast in the hollow of his cheeks—  


Cyclonus pushed upward to meet his steady grind. Tailgate shimmied his thighs farther apart, sinking the spike deeper. Aa-aah, nnngh~  


—impenetrable plate armor overlapping and intersecting, the lengths of his claws, fierce in appearance and their ability to rend steel but tender in touch—  


The grip on his hips tightened. Cyclonus’s helm tipped back, venting a sweltering wave of air. Tailgate chewed his lower lip. His visor retracted, shining optics meeting the somber richness looking back at him.  


—and the deep timbre of his voice, when he sang and when he spoke, baritone, perfect. “Perfect” came to mind often whenever Tailgate thought of Cyclonus.  


Servos glided leisurely along the flat plains of abdominal plating, and Tailgate rose up and down.  


Cyclonus watched him. The shivers in his frame, clutching digits, voluptuous hips rising and falling, rocking, and his spike disappearing into Tailgate’s body. His plates vibrated with pleasure. Mouth open, he groaned.  


“Tailgate. . . .”  


“Cyclonus, aah . . . hah, ngh. . . .”  


They didn’t chase their overloads. Staving off the peak, it allowed them to draw it out, to come closer. The lingering bliss their link gave them was too great to wish it gone so soon. Yet their needs heightened as the interface carried on. Inactive systems returned, craving the release but willing themselves to delay it, unwilling to lose this moment of connection in favor of something as impersonal as a lone discharge of fluid.  


Despite his intentions, Tailgate’s body was the first to demand relief. Overheated, cooling fans whirred and his face was flush with energon. Palms dug into Cyclonus’s hips and canted forward, grinding down, taking the spike all the way to his ceiling node yet still craving more. His helm tipped back, processor a haze of bleary connections. His spike jutted into the empty air between them, unused but not ignored. Cyclonus toyed with him, spreading transfluid down his length and pumping lethargically.  


“C-C-Cyc-clonus,” Tailgate panted. “I need—I-I need—I need—!”  


Cyclonus quieted him, understanding.  


Hooking his servo beneath his knee, the old warrior switched their positions, allowing Tailgate to rest on his chassis as the bigger mech settled on top of him. The blissful whine that left Tailgate as he was entered again was music in Cyclonus’s ears. How could one mech possibly produce so many beautiful sounds, he wondered.  


One arm braced into the berth and the other around Tailgate’s waist, Cyclonus rocked his hips at the same slow grind Tailgate had done for him. Long strokes to seat himself deep within him, savoring the heat and pleasure and the quiver of Tailgate’s frame.  


White thighs spread farther apart for him, and Cyclonus pressed his chest down on Tailgate’s back, flattening him into the berth.  


Though Cyclonus didn’t know, to Tailgate the weight was divine. The pressure on his body and in his valve, the arm embracing his middle. Primus, Cyclonus, hold me tighter, he wanted to say, his wish seemingly answered as Cyclonus shifted his loadbearing arm closer in, enveloping Tailgate completely.  


Feeling properly claimed, Tailgate rocked back into the other’s steady thrusts, taking the spike as far as his body would allow and pleading with Cyclonus for more. A helm nudged on the top of his hood, and without Tailgate really having to think about it it shifted down his back. Feeling suddenly bare without the guard behind his helm, the feeling vanished as a pair of lips descended on the nape of his neck. He whined, digits scrambling for purchase when Cyclonus’s servo wrapped around his spike and began to pump. The same long, fluid strokes as his hips.  


Tailgate turned his helm, trying to see him, to look Cyclonus in the optic.  


Noticing this, Cyclonus met him cheek plate to cheek plate. A gesture so absurdly affectionate, yet Cyclonus didn’t bat an optic at plying for more of the minibot’s touch. A shaking, white servo came up and clutched behind his neck, and Cyclonus hummed with want.  


Words were spoken, and through Cyclonus’s delirium he wasn’t certain if he had heard them right, or if Tailgate had even spoken at all. But in the earnestness of watery blue optics—brimming with trust, vulnerability, and hunger for connection—Cyclonus knew he had not been mistaken. Tailgate had said the words. Words that were at the forefront of Cyclonus’s processor since experiencing the agony of Spark merger for the first time in eons. In his core, Cyclonus felt that same heat welling up again. At the base of his Spark, spreading out from its center: that beautiful agony, the instant of connection where two became one, and the static of the universe faded in the background.  


Cyclonus felt it again, and this time he did not have to let go.  


The delicate hook of a claw below Tailgate’s chin, and Cyclonus drew him into another kiss.  


Their brow plates merged together. Tailgate didn’t have long before overload took him, and Cyclonus came not far behind. A few jarring thrusts and Cyclonus tensed, straining against Tailgate’s back, the smaller bot’s digits locked within his own.  


His Spark ached with something indescribable, and Cyclonus came back to his senses and scooped the dazed minibot into his arms, lying them side by side with his helm tucked safely against his chest. He whispered into Tailgate’s audio. Something so soft it might have been mistaken for a breath.  


But Tailgate heard it. Oh, he heard it. He gazed up at the old soldier; his optics burned with conviction. Cleanser pooled in Tailgate’s eyes, and he reached up and pulled him into a smiling, wordless kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hello my name is Night and I like to wreck myself with emotions I didn’t know I wasn’t ready to feel for fictional alien robots]  
> [FUC— *cuts to commercial*]


	14. Drift&Perceptor2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Drift/Perceptor  
> Summary: Perceptor has something new to try for Drift.  
> Rating: M (tiny tentacle creatures, object/creature insertion, plugging, orgasm denial, oral, copious amounts of fluid, _sticky_ , NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [UM?¿??¿???¿¿?!¿ *aggressively clears throat*]  
> [Inspired by a mention in ceryskitty’s fic, Experimental Procedures. Special thanks to JenKristo and aut0bitch for being awesome beta readers!]

“What in Primus’ name is that?” gaped Drift, a twinge of apprehension in his tone.  


Lying cuffed to the desk in the private study attached to Perceptor’s lab, his ankles were bound to his thighs and held apart with some of the scientist’s own energon rope. Normally, he would have been more than willing to have Perceptor bind him, always eager to indulge in one of their many shared passions, but this time there was an air about Perceptor. In his optics, the quirk of his lip plates, the shifting of weight from one hip to the other.  


Perceptor stood before him. Behind that sly smile—the smirk Drift had come to associate with some of the best nights of his life—Perceptor’s optics were hungry, filled with intention.  


Wrapped around Perceptor’s servo and the current center of Drift’s focus was a writhing bundle of pseudo-organic appendages, pastel in color, a tint of pink somewhere between organic flesh and energon, and able to fit in the palm of his servo. Ropes of secretion connected its tendrils and Perceptor’s digits, a viscous slick that adhered it in the scientist’s hand while also providing it locomotion. Though it made now sounds of its own, Drift heard the wet squelches as it moved and explored.  


“The fruits of many long months of tireless research,” Perceptor answered, all the while appraising his creation. He extended his opposite hand and the creature reached out, touched the tip of his digit, and shied away. “Do you like it, Drift? I’ve been fine-tuning my experiments with pseudo-organic physiology. A fascinating creature, isn’t it? So . . . dexterous.”  


His smirked quirked higher at one side, looking at Drift.  


A streak of arousal buzzed through him as the scientist’s optics swept over him.  


“I designed them with you in mind.”  


“’Them’? Wait a sec—you’re not planning to put that thing inside me, are you?” Drift asked, experiencing a pang of worry at the idea of having an entire creature in his. . . .  


He tugged unconsciously on his restraints.  


Perceptor gave a wry look and chuckled. The creature started to climb down his forearm, so he repositioned his hand so it returned to its place. His entire forearm and above were coated in a fine layer of pearlescent secretion.  


“Now, why would I do a thing like that?” Perceptor chuckled.  


“’Cause that’s the kind of thing you love torturing me with.”  


Perceptor hummed a low sound in his chassis that made Drift want to break out of his cuffs and ravish him, experiment or no experiment.  


“Hmmm, so true, my lovely little racer.”  


But then Perceptor’s expression became serious. He lowered his arm and allowed the creature to travel to the other servo.  


“Are you opposed to this, Drift?” he asked, all play gone from his tone. “I understand I’ve been a bit secretive about this up until now, and if I have put you off from it I apologize. If you do not want to do this, tell me and I will not bring it up again.”  


“It’s not that, I just. . . .” Drift wiggled a little, more surprised by Perceptor’s invention than repulsed by it. His voice trembled despite the firmness he wanted to project, staring unblinkingly at the creature’s dozens of sinewy tendrils. “A-are you sure that things not gonna’, you know, bite me? ‘Cause I’d make you explain to Ratchet why there are little pieces missing out of my internal lining.”  


“Not at all, Drift. I engineered this creature myself. Not even Rodimus knows it exists. It has neither teeth nor claws and subsists exclusively on a fluid-based diet. There isn’t even a rigid structure in its entire body. It’s perfectly harmless, I assure you.”  


Though the logic side of his brain remained appalled, it was a creation of Perceptor’s, and Drift trusted its designer implicitly. Plus, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t insanely curious to know how it would feel.  


He settled his systems with a breath.  


“Okay,” Drift said, “I’ll give it a shot. You made it for me, after all.”  


The smile that crossed Perceptor’s lips was gilded rapture.  


“No safe words,” Perceptor stated. “You say stop, I will remove it.”  


Drift nodded.  


He shifted a bit to better view as Perceptor inserted a metal ring into the rim of his valve, startling him momentarily with the cold. Perceptor apologized, placing chaste kisses along his arrays and a long lick up the underside of his spike.  


Drift squirmed, feeling bare with his valve on display like this. The cold air unsettled him, but Perceptor’s lips were a welcome comfort. Heat blushed across Drift’s faceplate, his mind filled with the knowledge of what was about to happen, and twitched when Perceptor stroked his thigh to ease his nervousness.  


With the utmost care, Perceptor nudged the creature against his valve; Drift’s leg jerked, and Perceptor kissed his inner thigh. It could have been the warmth that enticed it, or the wetness, or perhaps even the scent. More likely it was a combination of all three that got the creature to release its hold on the sniper’s hand and reach out. Tiny feelers explored the opening before it, touching the sides and the plating around it, tentatively seeking, familiarizing. It brushed into a few drops of lubricant and pulled itself inside.  


Drift tensed at the influx of sensation. He whimpered.  


Perceptor caressed his legs and kissed his knee.  


“Easy, love,” he whispered. “Relax. Don’t clench too hard, now. You don’t want to hurt it.”  


Drift willed himself to relax, if only a little, and the creature seemed to respond. With more freedom of movement, it shifted and pulled itself along, moving deeper to the back of his valve. A hard groan left Drift chewing his lower lip plate, staring blankly at the ceiling panels while his pleasure sensors tried to make heads or tails of the creature fluttering inside him.  


Bizarre, torturous, and the perfect blend of euphoric and taboo, Drift shuddered. His optics came to focus on Perceptor: gazing over his body, walking his digits up and down his white inner thigh, and even giving his spike a few teasing strokes.  


Pink tendrils arced out of his valve as the creature moved back down, but Perceptor guided them back inside.  


Their optics met.  


Drift panted, “I believe . . . there was a . . . a plural in there somewhere?”  


Perceptor’s optics brightened a shade, then darkened. “You want me to get the rest?”  


“Wouldn’t be too terribly agaINST IT—” Drift tensed as the creature’s main bulk shifted past his caliper node, igniting a burst of sensations that left him a sudden quivering mess. He smiled breathlessly. “I know you don’t mind sharing me. And—o-oh, Primus—i-it kinda feels . . . like more would be twice as good.”  


Perceptor retrieved a canister from one of countless shelves lining the walls—and something else Drift couldn’t see. Unscrewing the lid, he reached into a viscous mess of opaque slime down to his elbow. Four more of the exact same creatures clung to his arm when he withdrew, each one a slightly different pastel color than the next. All felt about with their dozens of nimble tendrils, touching, exploring.  


A shiver betrayed Drift as Perceptor returned. One by one, he introduced the creatures to their new dwelling. The first hesitated briefly, but when a cluster of other tendrils reached out to greet it, it pulled itself inside and the others eagerly followed suit. Their movements drew so many luscious sounds from the mech, his valve quivering as it expanded to make room for all the additions. Moving past each other, squirming, fluttering, and examining his sensory receptors and whatever divots and soft structures they could find.  


The last one drew itself inside, a tight fit with five of the creatures now packed together. They moved about continually. Jockeying for positions which best suited them, sliding back and forth, one over the next, sometimes vying for a space occupied by another and getting into a squabble over it.  


Drift felt it all. In perfect. Whimpering. Detail.  


Perceptor cleaned his arm and removed the ring from Drift’s valve, allowing it to retake its shape. Occasionally, a tendril or two would emerge to feel around, but Perceptor would always see the creature back inside.  


Drift cycled rapidly. His body twitched at the smallest of movements. Groaning, shivering, optics a haze of cerulean lust.  


There was no reprieve. The creatures never stopped moving, not for an instant. Either to play with each other or because of a tiff over space—Primus, maybe they just knew what sweet torture they were inflicting upon the mech.  


Something hard pushed its way into the entrance of his valve, and with some chagrin Drift realized it was a plug. The tapered, unyielding shape was slightly bigger than what he was used to, but the mild discomfort was welcomed with a jerk of his hips, and Perceptor nudged it inside until the thickest part had forced its way through, allowing his valve to close around the thinner stalk. With the plug firmly in place, stretching Drift’s first couple nodes with a mild zing, Perceptor had effectively sealed his creations inside.  


The creatures reacted to the intrusion and the loss of space in the same way: by scrambling about and further mauling Drift’s pleasure sensors.  


Whimpers were like music to Perceptor’s audios. Involuntary twitches riddled Drift’s frame, jerking his legs occasionally and causing his spike to bob, burgeoning and leaking generous amounts of transfluid. Perceptor just couldn’t help himself. He climbed into Drift’s lap and surprised the mech by opening his panel and sinking down on his spike.  


“Speak to me, Drift,” Perceptor murmured, low and inviting. “Tell me how you feel.”  


Drift leaned his helm back on the table, chassis rising and falling rapidly with his cycling breath. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, the creatures buzzed about in his valve and Perceptor’s own slick heat encompassed his spike as he rode him. It was a wonder he could form coherent thoughts at all. Black digits rubbed up and down his abdominal plating, massaging it.  


“F-f-f-feels . . . str-trange—nnnngh,” he panted. “They’re—they’re movi-ing . . . a lot. Primus, they move. Hah, hah. They . . . they’re everywhere. . . . Filling me . . . squirming, ex-exploring? Aah, Perceptor . . . how long do you—mm! oh, yes, just like that. . . . H-how long do you intend to . . . leave them in . . . ?”  


The smirk returned, and Perceptor leaned down. Caressing Drift’s belly, he breathed on his lips.  


“However long you can stand to keep them in you, love,” he purred.  


A delicious smile curved Drift’s lips. He lifted his hips, pushing up the meet Perceptor’s downward thrusts and igniting even more movement inside.  


“Mmmmmm,” Drift moaned, gazing sideways at his lover, “we might be here f-for a while, then. A-ah, Primus, Percy. . . . This feels . . . Primus, this feels incredible. . . .”  


This was quite possibly the oddest interface Drift had done to date. Taking into account the fact he and Perceptor loved to indulge each other in as many kinks as they could come up with, both from their imagination and extensive research. Anything from bondage and suspension to energon play and—Perceptor’s recent favorite—bringing a third party into their berths, like Ratchet or Rodimus, usually just so he could watch and self-service as Drift got the daylights fragged out of him. It was a considerable repertoire by any standard, but this. . . .  


Drift rocked his helm back, jaw unhinging as numerous sets of sinewy tendrils grazed his sensory nodes. Sometimes they would grab on to move themselves around, stretching him wherever two passed together. Never keeping still. Always moving. Always writhing, buzzing, shifting. And Perceptor never slowed his pace, massaging his belly so ceaselessly it had gone from a mild tickle to adding to Drift’s rising charge. The pleasure was mind-numbing, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He needed more, and at this rate he was starting to fear Perceptor wasn’t going to give it to him.  


Overload did eventually break over Perceptor’s Spark. At that same instant, the tips of his digits opened up over two of Drift’s abdominal seams and introduced a sinisterly high portion of his charge directly into his circuitry. Four events occurred simultaneously as a result: Drift overloaded with startling force, his valve spasmed, electrical impulses shot along his sensory nodes and sent the pseudo-organics inside into a frenzy, and an archaic transformation sequence (which had only ever been activated twice in his lifetime) was triggered. While the creatures in his valve squirmed about in a tizzy, the redundant gestation chamber at the base of his valve opened up, and Drift had approximately four seconds to realize Perceptor’s intentions before all five creatures, in unison, bolted for the new opening.  


Drift clocked his helm on the desk, crying out. He arched so quickly and so hard he nearly dislodged the mech from his lap. Overload fizzled through his processor as the creatures butted up against the iris into his chamber, clambering over one another until one finally won out, wedged itself into the narrow opening, and forced through.  


“Oh, frag—oh, frag—oh, fraaaag—! Perceptoooor~ They’re—ahh!”  


Moaning hard, Drift clutched his restraints, feeling in great detail the divine pressure, the zing of the initial stretch, then relief as the next creature was finally through. Three more times he felt this happen, and only after his chamber was packed to the brink with five joyously wriggling masses did he feel any kind of dismay.  


“Y-you—hah!—you planned this,” he stammered accusingly.  


“From the very beginning,” Perceptor confirmed, stroking his love’s cheek.  


Sliding out of Drift’s lap, Perceptor cleaned himself off and closed his arrays. A glance over Drift’s body revealed a slight warp in his abdominal plating: a bulge so infinitesimal it might have gone unnoticed had Perceptor not been so fond of memorizing the spiritualist’s frame.  


Drift followed him with his eyes as Perceptor collected a few things and put them on their respective shelves, leaving the housing canister on a nearby table.  


“Yo-you leaving?” asked Drift.  


Perceptor returned to his side and indulged him in a long, fiery kiss.  


“Just for a little while,” he said, lingering at Drift’s dazed lips. “There are a few data collection modules I need to see to in the lab, but I will not be far, Drift. My commlink will be open, and I will come to check on you regularly.” He smiled, placing a servo on the other’s paunch and stroking it with his thumb. “Besides, this would be a magnificent opportunity for you to get acquainted with our new friends.”  


Drift moaned. “A-ah, ‘kay. . . .”  


He chewed his lower lip. The creatures alternated their positions in his chamber. A couple chose to move back down into his valve. Pushing their way through the narrow iris, Drift whined from the pressure and gasped when they snapped free, delving back and forth in quick flicks of their bodies. Passing each other and stretching his humming nodes, another emerged from his chamber and the three jammed together into a ball of no-you-move-first stubbornness right under his caliper node, pushing it out. His hips lurched involuntarily, crying out.  


Perceptor lingered a moment to watch this, then untied the ropes from Drift’s ankles. Carefully, he helped him stretch out again, not wanting him to get cramped or, worse, cut off his circulation. Drift tugged on the cuffs, signaling he wanted them off as well.  


Perceptor shook his helm.  


“No, no, my lovely little racer, those stay on,” Perceptor purred wryly. “Wouldn’t want you to try to end the game before it’s over, now, would we?”  


Breathless, Drift smirked.  


“Oh, you’re evil, Perc-cy,” he said, condensation forming along his brow guard. “Pure evil. . . .”  


“Ah, yes,” Perceptor grinned. Leaning down, he placed his hands on Drift’s belly and gently kissed it, finding the slight roundness irrationally sexy. “And that is why you love me so much. Mmm, I can feel them moving, Drift.”  


“Mmngh, don’t take too-oo long, Percept-tor. When we’re done here, I’m gonna’—hah! O-oh, slagging Primus—!”  


He was cut off as the three creatures pushed back up into his chamber, attempting it together at first, but reneged and went through one after the other, their passage eased as Drift’s body acclimated. The other two exited down his valve and wrestled.  


Perceptor kissed his panting lips and whispered, “I look forward to it.”  


\-----  


Monitoring his experiments in the lab was easier said than done when his commlink was filled with the sweetest, most desperate moans a bot could make. Perceptor felt Drift writhing across the comm, and the begging certainly did not help his concentration. Still, he was getting quite a bit of useful data from the creatures’ implants. If nothing else, at least he and Drift weren’t the only ones enjoying themselves.  


Every thirty minutes, Perceptor returned to the study to check on Drift, usually finding the mech wriggled into some odd position in his attempt to work himself to overload, yet the creatures seemed to put up valiant efforts in keeping it from him. There was nothing Perceptor loved more than seeing Drift in pleasure: whimpers of tortured bliss, biting his lip, optics watery, lissome plates blazing, and finials aglow.  


Two hours in, Drift’s expression was dazed. Drips of lubricant puddled under his aft where it had begun to escape passed the plug, spike standing tall and aching, untouched. Perceptor returned to his side and kissed him awake, stroking his cheek and neck and whispering loving things in his audial.  


“Perceptor,” Drift groaned, worn out. Legs splayed and covered in coolant.  


“Here, eat this,” Perceptor said, gingerly pressing an energon treat to his lips. “It will give you back some energy.”  


Drift consumed the treats graciously, but he was even more relieved when Perceptor finally freed his wrists from the cuffs. Grateful just to be able to move his arms freely again, he was much too exhausted to even complain, and allowed Perceptor to feed him a few more bites. Primus, they tasted divine. He ate greedily, and by time Perceptor set the empty plate aside Drift grabbed him by his helm and mashed their lips together. Biting, tactless, and rough, they gripped each other tight and kissed like they were trying to devour the other.  


Pulling away, Drift’s shaking digits dug into the back of Perceptor’s helm, hot breath fogging his reticle.  


“Are you gonna’ take them out now?” he asked, optics ravenous. “Because I think I’ve had about all I can ta-ake without a proper fragging.”  


Perceptor nodded. “Yes, I’ve collected all the data I needed. My intentions were to drag this out to tease you, but I apologize if it has taken too long.”  


Drift flopped back on the desk, biting his lip and dropping his jaw when one of the creatures dislodged from his chamber and wriggled about next to the others.  


“Primus, Perc-cy, don’t apol’gize,” he slurred, cycling ragged. “We’re going to do this again sometime. Soon. But—ah, mnnnn!—r-right now I just need you to. . . .”  


Drift trailed off as Perceptor moved between his legs. Stroking his servos along scalding thighs, Perceptor sucked Drift’s spike in his mouth and bobbed up and down. Drift’s helm snapped back. He cried out, long and deliciously shrill. Transfluid leaked from the tip, the shaft throbbed, and Perceptor bobbed his helm, laved the slit with his glossa, and sucked until Drift was shocked with a burst of electrical euphoria. Overload crackled through his plates, and he collapsed in a heap of relief, barely registering Perceptor swallowing around him. Spurred by the sudden burst, Perceptor’s creations came back to full activeness and began diving back and forth through Drift’s chamber and valve.  


The plug came out next and brought with it a suctioned pop and a virtual torrent of lubricant. Drift’s knees trembled. He gripped the edge of the desk and arched his neck.  


“Aaaah! Percy! Th-they went back—mmngh!—back in m-my chamber,” Drift whined.  


Perceptor had expected as much. Data from the implants suggested the creatures were quite happy with their new home, so removing them would be tricky. He tried the simplest approach first: feeling them out in Drift’s valve. Drift seemed fine with the method, but it egged no response out of his creations.  


The white mech groaned as he withdrew. “Tell me you h-have a way of getting them out, Percy. . . . As great as it is-is to feel like this . . . I really need to come down. . . .”  


“There is no need to worry, Drift,” Perceptor said. “I just need to tire them out.”  


Before Drift could wonder how he intended to do that, Perceptor shimmied him closer until his aft was almost off the edge of the desk. Bringing Drift’s thighs to rest on his hips, Perceptor opened his panel and his spike pressurized immediately.  


Already charged, Drift noted with a hint of satisfaction, licking a bit of oral lubricant from the corner of his mouth. He better positioned himself, and Perceptor finally—Finally!—entered him. Thighs flush with Drift’s aft, both moaned thickly.  


As far as his own pleasure went, Perceptor would have liked it to last. Primus, he wanted to make love to Drift. When he was shivering in sexual exhaustion, pliant and quivering and perfect, Perceptor wanted to ravish him through the desk. But the mech was spent, and he wasn’t about to push boundaries when it might not be welcome. He held Drift’s thigh and pumped his spike until it was fully pressurized, massaging the slit with the pad of his thumb.  


Stuffed with those wonderfully writhing bodies, Drift whimpered. His chamber was heavy within him. His Spark ached, having held too much charge with too few opportunities to disperse it. Drift chewed his cheek lining and gripped Perceptor’s servo as tightly as his circuits would allow.  


Inside him, the creatures reacted to the intrusion seemingly with interest. A number of tendrils probed curiously outward, retracting from Perceptor’s thrusts but reaching out again when he retreated.  


Perceptor deepened his thrusts, feeling the tendrils trying to explore. He pushed their frames as close as their armor would allow, reveling in the tortured keen it wrung from Drift, and pistoned his hips tightly. The tendrils grew bolder. Soon they were exploring his spike in greater detail, not retracting from his thrusts but catching the rhythm and timing their touches with it. Even Drift could feel how they all positioned themselves closer together, each wanting to explore this strange addition. He begged Perceptor to frag him harder.  


Dozens of tiny tendrils snaked along the head of his spike. One found the slit and attempted to examine it by delving fractionally inside. It was the kick that sent Perceptor over, and he took Drift with him.  


Drift tensed and slumped for the last time. Equal parts soreness and bliss quaked through his frame, more than happy to feel Perceptor overload in him. Transfluid washed into his chamber, a strange sensation by its own right, but the response it garnered from the creatures was unexpected. Their writhing slowed almost to a stop, so sudden he feared Perceptor may have killed them, but the worry was repealed when he pulled out and gently rubbed his belly.  


“Move back a little, Drift. There, that’s perfect. Push them out, now. Carefully,” Perceptor guided him.  


He did, and one by one the creatures slid easily from his chamber into an obscene puddle of mixed white, pink, and pearlescent fluids on the desk. Each still moved but slowly, lethargically.  


Perceptor gathered them up one at a time and returned them to their housing canister, spun the lid shut, and put it back in its place on a shelf.  


Drift lied there. He felt filthy. Transfluid, lubricant, and secretion smattered his thighs and condensation pooled across his plates. He didn’t envy Perceptor, not when he would eventually have to clean up the mess; if he had enough energy later, maybe he’d help.  


Drift couldn’t ignore his curiosity, though. Fortunately, he didn’t need to ask.  


“I designed them with a failsafe in mind,” Perceptor explained, matter-of-fact. “They power down immediately after feeding.”  


Drift blinked. “’Feeding’? Wait, you designed them to consume transfluid?” He gaped. “Of all the things—why?”  


Perceptor shrugged.  


“It is a simple enough compound to synthesize in a laboratory environment, and if I were ever to run out and could not synthesize more then it is always possible to fall back to my own reservoir.” The sideways grin the followed snapped Drift out of his bewilderment. “And while I did design them with the intention of furthering my research, I anticipated them to be functional during interface.”  


Drift was torn, finding the thoroughness of Perceptor’s research results to be equal parts off-putting and unreasonably erotic.  


He beckoned Perceptor with a digit. The instant the scientist was within arm’s reach, Drift snagged him by the back of his helm and mashed their lips together. Like before, the kiss was fervid, passionate, and demanding above all, moaning, panting, and trying to run circles around Perceptor’s glossa with his own. Drift pulled back, a thin rope of oral lubricant connecting them before being licked away, and locked optics with him. Perceptor looked ready to pounce.  


“You’ve got about thirty seconds to get me to your habsuite and frag me through your berth, Perceptor,” Drift growled, vehement despite the fact he could barely sit up much less stand or walk, “or you’re going to have a very surly mech to deal with tomorrow. All of tomorrow. And you can bet your perfect aft I’m going to do to you exactly what you put me through today. Only don’t think I’ll ask nicely.”  


Perceptor didn’t doubt a word of it. As naturally pliant as Drift was, the violent-Decepticon-turned-Autobot-spiritualist being dominating was a rare thing indeed—and, mmmm, something to treasure. It made him feel like prey under Drift’s hungry stare, and Perceptor imagined him fragging him into every surface of his habsuite once he got his strength back.  


He had Drift’s panels and the desk wiped clean in a flash. Drift barely had time to tuck himself away before Perceptor grabbed him by the waist and slug him over his non-microscope shoulder, carrying him giggling and biting all the way to his habsuite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [AM I KICKED OUT OF THE FANDOM YET? I’M KICKED OUT, AREN’T I.]  
> [*explodes into confetti anyway*]


End file.
